


Cramer Street Cases (1878-1879)

by Cerdic519



Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [4]
Category: Newhart (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Class Issues, Cornwall, Cruelty, Detectives, England (Country), F/M, Fire, Golf, Inheritance, Justice, Lace Panties, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Science, Secrets, Sibling Incest, Trains, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: 1878 (cont.)HELL HATH NO FURY – the St. Pancras caseEVERY LOSER WINS – why does John have lipstick?WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR MOTHER? – another corrupt policemanMESSAGES FROM MARGATE – the woman with no powder on her nose1879IF I HAD A HAMMER – sharp dealings in SalisburyTHE FOUNTAIN-PEN MYSTERY – enter John's lawyer brother StephenDEAD MAN WALKING – 28,000 dead bodies!HYSTERIA! – Sherlock gets badly traumatizedPANDORA'S BOX – Sherlock's sister Evelith is up to no goodBLOOD BROTHERS – the persecution of John Vincent HardenDEATH OF A REPELLENT PHILANTHROPIST – Sherlock arranges a murderTHE TRIALS OF TOM TAPPER – a lady is not told somethingCLUB COLOURS – horror by the ThamesTHE MUSGRAVE RITUAL – tragedy in Scotland
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112249
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Hell Hath No Fury

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourinfinities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourinfinities/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 1878. Danger is always at the shoulder of every copper – but when Death claims one of the brave men at LeStrade's station and indeed one related to Sherlock's friend, the Grim Reaper leaves behind a tell-tale calling-card.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the St. Pancras case, where a cap was found beside a dead policeman.

Watson and I were set to spend five years at Cramer Street with Miss Letitia Hellingly as our land-lady. She was quiet enough and had the most definite advantage of not being her overbearing (in every sense) sister Mrs. Evadne Hall. Being simpered at by a married woman was bad enough; not being able to breathe properly while under such an assault was worse!

Cramer Street, which Watson later told me was named after my fellow violinist Wilhelm Cramer (1746-1799), lies in the Marylebone district of the capital and is a north-south thoroughfare that runs parallel to and just west of the busy Marylebone High Street, itself being a connecting road between Moxon Street in the north and St. Vincent Street in the south. The road is barely the length of a school athletics track and we were fortunate enough to live towards the northern end from where it was but a short walk to Paddington Street Gardens (then not yet open to the public, and the other side of which was Dorset Street where Watson would reside briefly some years hence). Sir Christopher Wren may have been frustrated in his plans to rebuild London as a city of open boulevards after the Great Fire two centuries before but there were and still are many green areas to enjoy. Most importantly the place was reasonably close to the Bloomsbury Practice, where my friend was slowly increasing both his workload and standing.

One good thing about our new home was that it was a lot quieter than those before and after it, for the road pretty much led nowhere, nor was it of any practical use to cab-drivers as a short-cut to avoid busier roads as the parallel Aybrook Street to the west was wider. The only traffic therefore was people who lived or visited there. Unusually for central London the houses along our road still had names and we lived in what was euphemistically called 'Laurel Cottage' even though it was as much of a town house as our later and more famous residence in Baker Street. I can name the place because, sad to say, a fire ravaged the buildings along the whole road in 1910 after which they were all condemned and pulled down, although I should add that given some of the horrors perpetrated in the name of modern architecture, their replacements were quite tolerable. 

It was during our time there that the 'Strand' magazine first took an interest in Watson's writings and he was able to present the wonders of my brilliant and genius deductive powers to the rest of the world. His writing was, regrettably, oftentimes sensational and I may or may not have had cause to reprove him for such an approach, but he gradually improved over time. And the most important thing of all in our new home; Mrs. Hellingly's cook produced even more wonderfully crispy bacon than Mrs. MacAndrew's had!

Talking of our former landlady, it goes without saying that I kept my word to her as regarded her other tenants and with Moira's help was able to find them all either adequate or better places elsewhere in the city, except for one gentleman who wished to return to his native Wales and who I also accommodated. I also made sure that the sale of the place was expedited and the funds remitted to the lady who had hosted us for two years, and that she was kept informed of all this. It is one of the many good sides of my character and one which would serve me well throughout my career that I had a reputation for caring for what was rather oddly called 'the little people'. To me all people were just, well, people.

MDCCCLXXVIII

Even with the slowly developing sewage system and other improvements in health and sanitation, death was a common part of Victorian London as the steamship disaster last month has so startlingly demonstrated. Indeed I remember Watson once telling me that the birth rate in the city was not actually keeping up with the death-rate, only immigration from the country and Abroad pushing the total population up. But shortly after our arrival to Cramer Street we encountered one death which hit someone close to us.

The young constable sat in the fireside chair was about twenty-one years of age, dark-haired and of a generally unprepossessing appearance. His name was Lamorak Simpkins and, as might be suggested by such a Christian name, he was LeStrade's nephew, the second son of the cake-loving sergeant's sister Elaine. I knew from the moment that he arrived that something bad had happened; he looked dreadful.

“It's my brother Percy”, he said heavily. “He's dead! Killed on duty.”

That news was shocking enough, yet I detected something else amiss in my friend's reaction. Even before the young constable had spoken he had been definitely not his usual self. I wondered why.

“What happened?” I asked. Percival Simpkins was one year this fellow's elder but totally different in appearance, a fair-haired athlete who had he not been happily married could have made an excellent living at my brother Logan's Debating Societies. His uncle had expected him to go far in his career, and I had shared those hopes.

“He was investigating a break-in down Wellstream Terrace”, the constable said, “and the blackguard must've still been inside the place. Shot him point blank; the poor boy didn't stand a chance. He was just married and all!”

I looked more closely at the young man. This was bad, on so many levels, but I had to know the worst. I took a deep breath.

“So who is the other woman?”

I feared for a moment that the young fellow was going to have a seizure. Watson handed him a hastily-poured whisky and he drank it down in one shot before staring in shock at me.

“How the blazes did you know that, sir?” he demanded in horror. “Please God don't tell me those vermin in the press have dug out the story so soon? My poor brother isn't even cold!”

“Elementary”, I said calmly. “Were this to be a regular case then the killing of one of your own men would demand the full focus of the whole station and indeed the entire Metropolitan Police Service as you rightly sought to avenge your lost colleague. Bringing in an outside agency like myself would not be considered, even by your uncle. Yet you have come straight to us and clearly would not have done so without his sanction hence there must be a certain element in the case which makes discretion desirable, since even policemen gossip and you would not wish his poor widow to have any further troubles. Besides, given your brother's sterling reputation something that would besmirch the same is clearly implied because, sad to say, that sort of thing sells copies.”

The boy calmed down a little and nodded.

“It could hardly be worse”, he sighed. “In fact no, it couldn't be worse. He was just over the eastern edge of our patch when it happened. Wellstream Terrace, though it's in St. Pancras, is a well-to-do new development on Sergeant Wright's patch next door and.... uh.... he and the men from our station don't always get on.”

I frowned. Much as I admired most of the work that our Police Service did, I felt that this territorial attitude by some policemen did them no favours at all. On the other hand I had been unfortunate enough to have met Sergeant Matthew Wright on one occasion myself and I doubted that anyone could 'get on' with him. Watson had told me that his wife had left him due to the fellow's 'unreasonable behaviour', and the only thing that had surprised me about that was that she had made the mistake of going up the aisle with the useless dolt in the first place! She had won a settlement against him in the divorce court (as has been said before, a rare thing for a lady to have managed in those days) and he had responded by using his position to harass her, which had led to a return to court and an even larger bill for him which he had only paid when his job had come under threat. 

It said something unflattering if accurate about the Metropolitan Police Service that they had not disciplined the dolt, but I knew that he had relatives somewhere so presumably they had 'protected' him. Worse, he had been in the service for longer than either of our cake-loving friends and was almost eligible to apply for promotion to inspector around the end of next year, which was a dreadful thought. Although perhaps the station-cat might apply as well, in which case Sergeant Wright would have struggled to have come second.

“So he was killed on someone else's 'patch'”, I mused. “And the chances of that excuse for a policeman co-operating at all in the matter will be minimal, as in none. That makes things harder, but not impossible. Tell me what you know.”

The constable sighed. 

“Percy went out at six yesterday morning”, he said. “Around half-past nine he was in St. Gerard's Drive when he must have heard something in the neighbouring street, Wellstream Terrace. There's a small cut-through alleyway and he went down that.”

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“He was found dead at number thirty-three”, our visitor said. “He'd been struck before he was shot; I suppose whoever did it must have either panicked or decided to make sure he couldn't finger them later. Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc at number thirty-one was out in his garden; he said he'd heard shouting from next door then saw Percy emerge from the alleyway and run up to the house. He tried the front door first but that was a solid piece of oak – I've been there – so he went and tried round the back. He must have gotten into the house then been shot.”

“What did Mr. Beauclerc do when he heard the shot?” I asked.

“He _claims_ he didn't hear it”, the constable said dubiously. “But when Percy didn't emerge and there was silence, he got worried. He went out the back and used the alleyway that cuts across to Kent House Road where he found one of Wright's men, and they went back to the house. Too late for poor Percy but I suppose I can see why Mr. Beauclerc wanted to be careful, 'specially as he's a weedy little runt.”

“I find it hard to believe that someone would not hear something as loud as a gunshot”, Watson said dubiously. “Especially as he was outside at the time.”

There was nothing odd in his words yet somehow I detected that there was something 'off' about him. I knew that he had treated the late Percival Simpkins and his wife as part of his philanthropic dealings and made a mental note to tackle him about whatever he might know later.

“Didn't like the fellow myself but there's something else to explain that”, our visitor said. “There was a cap found next to the body with a bullet-hole in it. The killer must have shot through the cap to muffle the sound; there were no marks around the wound like you usually get when the shot is done close in.”

I nodded.

“So”, I said heavily. “Who is the shady lady who lives at number thirty-three?”

“Miss Catriona Siddick”, the constable said sourly, “and it would be stretching things to call her a lady. Sergeant Wright interviewed her himself and one of his constables took great pleasure in telling me it was the first time he'd ever seen his boss sweat! Unfortunately Mr. Beauclerc saw her leaving for her work half an hour before it all went down and he stayed in his garden all that time.”

I thought that the shady lady could easily have slipped back in using the back door, although I could see no obvious motive on her part. I looked pointedly at our visitor.

“You have neglected to mention the name of the fellow that you have hold on for this crime”, I said mildly.

The young constable sighed at my omniscience.

“Any chance you can use those freakish superpowers of yours to put your finger on the guilty party, sir?” he asked hopefully.

“Who have you arrested?” Watson asked.

“Not arrested, just taken in for questioning”, the constable said. “Mr. Frederick Quimby, the fellow who lives on the other side at number thirty-five. He's a picture-framer and works in a shop off the Strand but he was off work with the flu. We checked that with his doctor but it was true and his work confirmed getting a message from him. I wondered about that – these days most people work through that sort of thing or risk losing their jobs – but the young fellow at his shop told me that he's one of those who catches almost anything and his father who owns the place insists no-one comes in when ill, preferring to pay them to stay clear. Mr. Beauclerc said that he thought Mr. Quimby might have had a thing for Miss Siddick though he didn't know if she felt anything in return.”

I thought that Mr. Beauclerc seemed to have been very informative. Possibly because he had other things he did not want to come out. A clever tactic, although obviously ineffective now that I was on the case.

“Did Mr. Quimby not hear the shot?” I asked.

“No”, the constable said, “but he does photography work at his house and has a dark room in his cellar. He says he was down there and the place has a double door to prevent anyone from blundering in. He admitted that he did like Miss Siddick but though she'd seemed friendly at first, things hadn't happened. He said he thought she liked Mr. Beauclerc more which given that runt's appearance I found hard to believe, but I suppose you never know.”

“Does the garrulous Mr. Beauclerc have any evidence for his suspicions of his neighbours?” I asked.

“Not much”, the police-man admitted. “He's a right woman when it comes to spying on the neighbours, though my mother would clock me for saying as much. He _says_ he saw him enter the house through the back way on at least one occasion. He was putting out the rubbish at the time and 'just happened' to see him.”

I wondered how long Mr. Beauclerc had been putting out the rubbish before 'just happening' to have seen that. Or if indeed he had seen it at all. Watson really was a dreadful influence on me at times.

“Hmm”, I said. “Tell me, what do Miss Siddick and Mr. Beauclerc do for a living?”

“She is a dressmaker and works for some high-end fashion place in the West End”, the police-man said. “She goes round to a list of clients each day and her first was some batty old dear over Putney way who was convinced she'd arrived with the Prince of Wales in tow! Then again, given that gentleman's reputation she may not have been wrong!”

Watson sniggered at that. 

“Mr. Beauclerc works on the railways as a clerk”, the constable continued, “for the Metropolitan Railway Company. He was off that day because he had worked the previous Sunday.”

“I would like to see that cap”, I said. “Unfortunately I suppose that it is currently in Sergeant Wright's station, and we all know that he would not take kindly to a consulting detective taking an interest in his case.”

“My uncle thought you might, sir”, the constable said. “I'm on duty soon but he said that if you send to him, he can meet you at Inspector Wright's station and make sure he lets you see it. What do you think?”

“I think that someone has been extremely clever”, I said. “But even the cleverest people slip up from time to time. We can but hope. I promise to keep you informed of developments, sir.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

Once the constable was gone I looked expectantly at Watson. Now that I came to think of it he might have had reason to know something about our visitor; he treated LeStrade's and Gregson's families as part of his philanthropic work, after all. Although that in itself might be a problem.

“There is something you know about that unhappy gentleman”, I said carefully. “Is it to do with a medical matter?”

He shook his head.

“Not directly”, he said, “and I doubt it is relevant to this case. Percival Simpkins's wife Minnie was ill just after the wedding and I treated her. She.... told me something; it was in confidence but as it may be relevant I suppose that I had better tell you.”

I looked expectantly at him.

“It is rather sad”, he said, looking unusually wistful. “Lamorak had a crush on her; I suspect that he still does. Nothing happened, and when she met Percival.....”

He trailed off, but I could see what he meant. Despite being brothers Percival Simpkins had been very much the handsome Arthurian knight of legend while his brother, only one year his junior, was plain in comparison. I had the unpleasant thought that I would have to make some inquiries into just where our recent visitor had been at the time of his brother's death.

Sometimes I did not like my job.

MDCCCLXXVIII

We met a glum-looking LeStrade outside Sergeant Matthew Wright's police-station. As I had expected the unpleasant sergeant refused to have any truck with a consulting-detective examining what he regarded as _his_ evidence. But he could not object to LeStrade examining it and my just happening to stand opposite him when he did so although I heard several disapproving tuts. I caught at least two of the sergeant's constables smirking at their superior's very obvious displeasure; bullies and their ilk are never liked.

The cap was at first sight utterly unremarkable. It was clearly from some railway company – I could see where a round badge had been removed from the front – and of the cheap sort that are commonly available. Otherwise its only distinguishing feature was the prominent bullet-hole in it. I only asked one question while examining it and LeStrade looked at him strangely when I asked whether any of the three people involved owned a cat (only Mr. Beauclerc did). I could see that Sergeant Wright believed I had found nothing, and even Watson wondered at our coming all this way to look at a cap. 

I smiled at him.

“On the contrary”, I said. “That small and rather cheap item of clothing told me two very important things about the case.”

The three of us were squashed into a carriage riding back to LeStrade's station, and they both turned to stare at me.

“What things?” the sergeant asked.

“Who committed the crime and, equally importantly, who did _not_ commit the crime”, I said simply. “But a court will need more proof, especially as it may well be a hanging affair.”

“Was young Percy seeing this woman?” LeStrade asked anxiously.

“You may rest assured that he was not”, I said firmly. “Which reminds me; LeStrade, will his service qualify his widow for a pension? I know that officers have to have served a set time before that can happen.”

Our friend's face fell. Clearly he had not thought of that particular problem, which was understandable in the circumstances.

“Never mind”, I said comfortingly. “We shall think of something.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

We dropped LeStrade off at his station and headed back to Cramer Street, stopping at the post-office near the house where I immediately fired off several telegrams. I was increasingly coming to appreciate when Watson did not push for what I had discovered. His presence was strangely settling, I found.

Three days passed and several more telegrams came and went, until I decided that it was time for action. Watson was clearly surprised when instead of going and collecting LeStrade, we instead headed to Wellstream Terrace.

“I am going to do something a little unethical to bring about justice in this matter”, I said. “Hence I would rather that our faithful friend were not there to see me do it, otherwise he himself may have questions to answer. Otherwise I would of course have both him and his nephew here so that they could claim the credit for what is about to emerge.”

We reached our destination and I paid the driver. Unusually all the houses in the terrace had names as well as numbers and Miss Siddick's was 'Pomfret'. A young constable was still stationed outside and eyed us suspiciously.

“Do not worry, constable”, I said amiably. “Our business is with number thirty-one or, as I see it is called, 'Buffers'.”

Thinking not for the first time that some people should not have been allowed to choose names for their houses, I led the way up the path to knock at the front door. It was opened by a fellow whom was presumably the local busybo.... Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc, who peered at us curiously. He was much as Constable Simpkins had described him; I could see why he had been dubious about Mr. Quimby's claims that any woman would look twice at this pipsqueak. 

Unless, of course, she had reason so to do.

“I am not buying anything”, he said loftily. “Go away.”

I smiled at him.

“We are here about the murder that you were involved in the other day”, I said quietly.

The fellow went pale but ushered us in. 

“What do you want?” he demanded once we were in his hallway.

“I would rather talk about this seated, if you do not mind”, I said amiably. “I do not consider that matters concerning murder are the sort of thing to be discussed in a hallway. Unless you would like me to call that nice constable in to 'help'?”

He looked horrified but led us into his main room. He did not offer us any drinks but just stared at us.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Let us just say that we are gentlemen”, I smiled, “and that we are here for your welfare.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. 

I sighed.

“We are investigating a certain character who if they run true to form will shortly be committing their second murder”, I said as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “Of you.”

The fellow started.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, he said, although I noted that he looked worried. 

I smiled knowingly.

“Miss Catriona Siddick”, he said. “One of those women – I cannot and will not demean the term 'ladies' by applying it to the likes of her – who find it not just incomprehensible that a man will refuse their advances, but utterly and completely unforgivable. She made a play for the affections of a handsome young London constable and was amazed that she was rejected on the flimsy grounds that he was happily married. She was not to be rejected like that and so plotted a most vicious revenge. Involving you.”

Watson stared at me in astonishment. Mr. Beauclerc swallowed hard.

“She obtained a house in a road that was ideally situated, for two reasons”, I continued. “Firstly it was next to where her target patrolled but over in a neighbouring station's patch. The villainess knew how parochial London's constabularies are and that a crime committed in such a location would have its investigation hindered by the inevitable and unnecessary 'turf war'. Secondly, she had no intention of risking her own neck in the matter. She intended to employ someone else to do the actual murder. A handy neighbour who could easily be gulled into believing that she found him attractive.”

“She plays on the affections of both her gentleman neighbours and decides that you are the more stu.... the more _amenable_. Before you know it, you are writing your will to leave all your money to her and lending more than a sympathetic ear when she tells you the horrendous tale of a former suitor of hers who has joined the Metropolitan Police and is using his new job to harass her. Finally she has you round one day when she claims that this fellow had tried to first molest and then to kill her, but that she had managed to knock him out.”

The villain looked set to faint. I had somewhere less than zero sympathy.

“Do you have access to her house?” I asked brusquely.

“Yes”, he said. “Not the front door – she would not let me have the key until we were married – but there is a connecting door to which we both have a key. I have a table on my side of it but I know that her side is clear.”

“Then open it.”

The man moved faster than I would have thought possible and the door was open for us in barely a minute.

“Now”, I said gravely, “you will come with us into the house. I need to search for certain things therein. You will sit on a chair and say nothing. Once I am done we will talk. Do you understand?”

He was physically trembling as he followed us into the house and I set about my work. Thankfully the villainess who owned this place had not expected her fortress to be breached so I was easily able to find what I expected. I got Watson to take notes about my observations, collected a few items as evidence, then we left – but not before I had left Miss Catriona Siddick a rather important note. One of the last that she would ever read before heading somewhere rather warmer than St. Pancras.

MDCCCLXXVIII

We had returned to 'Buffers'. Mr. Beauclerc almost collapsed into his own chair, clearly trying to look piteous in the belief that that would in some way make me be generous in my treatment of him. 

Not. A. Chance.

“I have but one question for you”, I said coldly, “but I warn you that an untruthful answer at this stage of the proceedings would most definitely not be in your best interests. When Miss Siddick told you to, _did you shoot Constable Simpkins?”_

The man shook his head.

“Words, please!” I growled.

“No, sir!” he almost yelled. “She called me a coward and said that I was nothing to her for refusing 'that small service' – a small service; killing a fellow man! – but I could not. I swear!”

I stared at him for some little time. I knew that he was telling the truth, but I saw no reason not to make him suffer. Had he refused to play his part in this tragedy then our friend's nephew might still be alive.

“It is fortunate for you that I know you speak the truth”, I said at last. “Bad as you have been you drew back at the last, so that shall count for something. Here.”

I handed him a card.

“What is this, sir?” he asked, his hand trembling.

“You will now do the following”, I said. “You will spend the next half-hour packing as many of your possessions as you can into what you can carry, then you will take the deeds of your house and go to that address where you must ask for a 'Mr. Golightly'. He offers a service whereby he will advance cash for the deeds of your house – not of course their full value but enough to set you up in the New World to which you will leave on the next ship. I know that two are sailing today and bearing in mind that your neighbour will not be best pleased at your unexpected departure, I most strongly suggest that you are on the first one. If she works out that you are headed for the docks, she may be able to intercept the second.”

“But sir....”

“Alternatively”, I said, “you could remain here and face some _very_ difficult questions from the police, the likelihood of a long time in gaol for your role in aiding and abetting the murder of a London constable – something upon which our judges rightly frown – and the absolute certainty that your employers will be terminating your employment the moment that they hear of your activities and choice of 'partner'. I am a fair man sir, and because you were honest with me and you did not pull that trigger, you shall have that choice. But do not test my patience any further, or....”

The fellow was already fleeing, grabbing a large carpet-bag off the side as he went.

MDCCCLXXVIII

“How could you know that _he_ did not kill poor Simpkins?” Watson asked as we were heading back to Cramer Street. 

“Because Miss Siddick made every effort to implicate one or both of her neighbours in the crime”, I said. “Three things gave her away, two of which concerned that cap.”

“I still do not see what you saw in that”, he said petulantly. “It looked to me just like an old cap.”

“It was perhaps a little unfair of me to word it the way I did”, I conceded. “I shall elaborate. It was one thing that was on the cap and two things that were not.”

“Now I am even more at sea!” he complained. “You do that deliberately!”

I did, but I still managed an innocent look as he glared at me.

“One of the things missing was cat hair”, I said. “It is one of the most adhesive substances known to man, so the fact that there was none on it clearly meant that it had not been in Mr. Beauclerc's house for any length of time despite being a former railwayman's cap. Doubtless Miss Siddick purchased it second-hand somewhere or other in an attempt to implicate him.”

“What was the other thing missing?” I asked.

“My examination of the cap showed that the badge that had once adorned it came from the Great Western Railway”, he said. “Unusually for a railway company their cap badges are round, not square. LeStrade confirmed for me that Mr. Beauclerc told the truth when he said that he worked for the Metropolitan Railway. Then there was the one thing that was on the cap; soot particles. The Great Western Railway improves the performances of its locomotive stable by using quality Welsh coal. That leads to a much finer soot particle easily detectable by someone looking for it. Miss Siddick knew that a cap in use would have had more soot so applied some soot from her own fireplace thinking that that would further implicate Mr. Beauclerc, but that there was both that and the finer Great Western soot particles showed her guilt. At the end of the day it would after all be the word of a poor, defenceless, attractive woman against a man who she would doubtless have claimed had been pestering her and who killed a rival for her affections. That and the evidence would probably have been enough for Mr. Beauclerc to hang, which was the other reason that I allowed him to flee.”

“The demon!” I growled. “She will have her day in court!”

She would not, as I well knew, but I kept silent on that. For now.

MDCCCLXXVIII

The following evening I passed Watson the late edition of the 'Times' in which I had ringed a certain small article.

“'Second death at Wellstream Terrace'”, he read. “'A Miss Catriona Siddick was found dead in her house, the same one in which a London policeman recently met an untimely demise. On this occasion however there are no suspicious circumstances'.”

He put the paper down.

“Suicide?” he asked. 

I shook my head.

“Assassination.”

He stared at me in astonishment.

“It is exceptionally fortunate that my criminal friend Mr. Kuznetsov has a cousin who is married to a London policeman”, he said. “I called on him the other day – I did not wish to make you worry over his involvement – and he arranged for one of his men to call on Miss Siddick and 'explain' matters to her shortly after our departure. I am sure that she tried to escape from her house but she failed.”

I could see that he did not approve of my methods but could also see that unless this woman had been stopped, there would most likely have been more deaths. Those who shut themselves off from human norms could not expect to be treated like humans.

“Inspector MacDonald has told LeStrade that the Service wishes to reward me for my help in this matter”, I said. 

He clearly appreciated the slight change of subject.

“That would be fair”, he said.

I shook my head.

“No”, I said. “I asked instead that they use the reward money to honour Mrs. Simpkins's rights as a widow despite her husband's lack of qualifying service. Moreover I shall be pressing for the service as a whole to make better provision for those who support our brave men.”

He smiled at me. He was happy with my solution, so all was well with the world.

MDCCCLXXVIII

Mr. Percival Simpkins left one unexpected legacy – eight months after his demise, his widow gave birth to a baby boy whom she called Lancelot (her late husband's choice). To its credit the Metropolitan Police Service paid her her full due and the dead man's colleagues at the station also raised a considerable sum, which I matched from my own pocket. And in the way that these things so often happen I would much later help the grown Mr. Lancelot Simpkins in a not unimportant matter in his own life.

Like Watson I was concerned how the murder might affect young Lamorak Simpkins, but thankfully that problem was solved by his uncle who insisted that he move in 'to keep an eye on his former sister-in-law'. And that a year later, the two became engaged when LeStrade told his nephew to 'get his finger out'. It was quite wrong of Watson to snark that our friend just happened to come round and tell us both these things on our landlady's baking days.

A certain doctor's smirk was fast becoming annoying.......

MDCCCLXXVIII


	2. Every Loser Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1878. The second of four cases that rounded off a year of changed addresses for Sherlock and John, and all four involved the fairer sex to some degree. Here a famous actress tried to take advantage of her celebrity by starting what for her might be a lucrative fashion trend – until a certain consulting-detective takes an interest.

It was strange that a case involving appearances occurred in the same month as one of the most famous trials of the decade, as it concerned the American artist Mr. James Abbott McNeil Whistler. Famous of course for painting his 'Arrangement In Grey And Black, Number 1' (better known as simply 'Whistler's Mother'), he had taken umbrage at art critic Mr. John Ruskin who had snipped that the high prices demanded for Mr. Whistler's works in no way reflected either the amount of work that he put into them or for that matter their true value. Foolishly Mr. Whistler had sued and that month he duly won his case – and a sum total of one farthing in damages which, I might wager, did not quite cover his legal costs. A British jury thought quite rightly that he should have accepted the criticism and just moved on, such was the strength of our jury system.

I mentioned to Watson about people who needed to accept their failings, and for some reason he looked across the breakfast-table to where all his rashers were on my plate (I had been hungry that particular morning) then around at my less than tidy side of our main room. If I had not known him better I might have thought that he was being snarky for some strange reason.

Our rooms at Cramer Street were, all things considered, a step up from those back in Montague Street and I noted that Watson was making an extra effort to keep our main room tidy. I did try to keep things in order – I really did! – but when I urgently required a certain document I often got just a little carried away, and would find it only to realize I had thrown half the contents of my room onto the floor. My friend always looked so disappointed when he came home to find matters less than orderly, although he never said anything. But that look was heart-rending in itself and I always made a note to try to do better in future – right until I got carried away again, unfortunately.

On this particular and fateful day however I had other and rather more pressing concerns than mere tidiness. Watson had had to rush through the last part half of his dinner when an urgent call had arrived from one of his most important (i.e. richest) clients, and as I knew one of the far too few who paid their bills on time. My friend had bolted out with his doctor's bag and for once had left his side of the room looking almost untidy (all right, nothing like as bad as mine; no need to go on about it). I finished my meal then went and sat down to read the 'Times', only to find that I was sitting on something that must have fallen out of Watson's medical bag which he had placed there while he had been getting ready. I reached down to find out what it was – and froze!

_Lipstick!_

I stared at the offending object In complete confusion. What the blazes was someone as upright and honest as John Hamish Watson doing with a lady's lipstick in his bag? There had to be a perfectly logical explanation, so if I sat here and thought long enough it would surely come to me.

It did not. Also, for some reason the room seemed strangely cold that day.

MDCCCLXXVIII

It seemed an interminable wait until Watson arrived back and I was sure that there was something wrong with the clock which claimed that it was a mere hour and a quarter. I had used that time to study the offending item intently but had only come to the conclusion that it was an unusual dark red, almost violet, and had a Greek letter phi (Φ) on the base as well as what was presumably meant to have been a halo above it. It struck me as ineffably cheap and tawdry, and I could not think what connection such an item would have to someone like my friend. 

I also had to pour myself a strong drink when the horrible thought as to what my mother might make of this not only crossed my mind but gave me several terrifying images in the process. Sometimes being possessed of such a brilliant mind was a curse, not a blessing!

When my friend did finally come in, the wonderful Miss Hellingly had some bacon sandwiches ready as she knew that he had missed part of his dinner, and I.... well, it was bacon and who cannot be hungry for that? She also very generously sent up a plate for me (I had only snaffled the bacon out of his sandwiches on one.... all right, two¹ occasions), although for once I was so worried that I barely noticed the delicious rashers. 

While we ate I wondered how to ask him about the lipstick without seeming too intrusive. Fortunately the Gods of luck were with me that evening.

“I do not suppose that you have seen my lipstick?”

I coughed violently and nearly managed a return of that last rasher. He looked at me in surprise.

“Peter gave it to me today”, he said, for some reason unsurprised at the effect his words were having on me. “Anne is a fan of this actress Miss Patricia Harcott², and she purchased it. It is the brand that the actress uses herself when she is out and about.”

“Why does an otherwise reliable friend start offering you lipstick?” I asked, not at all querulously. I quite liked our mutual friend Peter Greenwood who had got married last year; we had both attended his wedding much as I generally loathed such occasions, but Mother had been brewing some literary horror or other and had a Reading on the same day, so suddenly a wedding had become very attractive for once. The only very slight hitch had come when half-way up the aisle the bride had hesitated and most definitely simpered at one of the male guests, which had had Watson muttering about all that was wrong with the world – right up to the moment that he discovered that there were chocolate desserts at the reception, when his mood had miraculously improved for some reason.

Some men and their foodstuffs, honestly!

“He is a much better judge of human nature than me”, my friend said, as self-effacing as ever. “He does not like this actress at all although he never says as much to Anne, and he thinks that her giving away anything is suspicious. I said that I would do some tests on it for him.”

“The Case Of The Free Make-Up!” I smiled. “Never let it be said that life does not bring variety to our door.”

“You think that there is a case here?” he asked, surprised.

“I agree with you that your friend is an excellent judge of character”, I said, “and if he thinks that something is wrong here then he may well be right. Do you know of this Miss Harcott at all? Come to that, is that really her real name?”

“It is, although I read somewhere that it is the English version of the same word in French or Italian”, he said. “She is often in the newspapers for her strange ways although of course they put it down to her being a foreigner. She is not among the most famous of actresses but they say that she can perform well.”

“Enough to reach those society-pages that you never read!” I smiled, knowing that that remark would elicit a pout of displeasure. 

_And there it was!_

“She is known for actually applying her make-up in public”, he said frostily, “which is quite unheard of. Perhaps she is trying to start a trend?”

 _In which case perhaps the odd free lipstick is a small price for being in the news-papers_ , I thought. Damnation, I was becoming almost as catty as... Watson!

No. That could never happen, not to someone as intelligent as me.

MDCCCLXXVIII

I thought about this matter for some time and eventually decided to contact my brother Mark, who might be able to find out if I was right. There was no particular hurry, which was just as well as he was away for a long weekend with his lover Tiny, which for poor Mark would be a long and hard weekend followed by very little sitting down in the first half of next week. He had made what he had presumably thought to have been a smart remark about all that bacon putting weight on me the last time we had met at the gymnasium, so I had decided to slip Tiny a few extra 'supplies' for his weekend in the sun, or at least in Buckinghamshire in late November. For my over-sharing sibling it would be a much longer and very painful journey back to London come Sunday!

Impressively even for Tiny, it was Wednesday before I heard from what was left of Mark, and then it was a request to meet him at one of our clubs. Clearly the stairs at Cramer Street would have been too much for him after his 'long and hard' weekend! I would have expressed sympathy for him but for some reason I did not. 

“I am never insulting you again!”, he muttered. “God, Tiny had to carry me out to my cab, and the ride to the station.... the driver stopped because I was screaming so much. Tiny tried really hard not to smirk but failed dismally, then he looked so upset that I nearly let him have his way with me in the cab!”

I looked pointedly at him. He blushed fiercely.

“A side-room off the station waiting-room”, he admitted. “Lord, those damn porters can smirk!

I smiled at that. Tiny had one of the greatest 'woe is me' faces ever; I knew (although Mark had never told me) that he had never 'bowled' with the behemoth as the latter did not like it, and my brother was a push-over. Come to that, if I pushed him now he would likely roll off his chair! I was sorely tempted....

“I did that research that you asked for”, he said, smothering a yawn. “I am pleased to say that you were only partly right.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“I could always slip some more 'supplies' to Tiny.....”

“Damnation, you were mostly right!” he grumbled. “Leave a man some pride here.”

“Why?” I grinned. “Tiny did not!”

“True”, he agreed. “The factory is in France, Dieppe to be exact. They do not just make lipstick on its own however; their speciality is making what you might call presentation packs, lipsticks, blusher and face-powder in one kit.”

“Why is that?” I wondered.

“I am afraid that that is something that only a lady could answer”, he said. “You could always ask Mother.”

I glared at him for that. The odds on Tiny being even better supplied for their next weekend together had just considerably shortened, as not coincidentally had his potential lifespan!

MDCCCLXXVIII

Since I knew that Mother was working on yet another of her terrible stories – this latest horror was about a group of cooks who started out in a cooking competition that somehow descended into an orgy, 'The Great British Bake-Off' – I instead called on Peter Greenwood's wife Anne to ask her about her actress.

“She is more famous in France than here”, she explained, “and she does not go down well with some of the British theatre critics who, she says, do not appreciate _real_ talent. But she is very beautiful although Peter does not like her looks at all. He thinks that she looks unhealthy, and he does not like her campaigning for political causes. That may be another reason she does not go down well with some of the critics; her last performance had a quite open attack on Mr. Disraeli which some of them took against.”

Much as I rated critics down there among politicians, journalists, lawyers and sewage-workers as necessary but eminently avoidable members of society – damnation, I had forgotten to include Randall in that list – I could see their point on this occasion. People went to the theatre to be entertained and to have a fun evening out, not to be on the end of a political lecture.

 _“Does_ she look unhealthy?” I asked.

“She is famed for her pale skin and dark make-up”, she said, “which with her red hair makes quite a contrast. She is doing a rare two-week stint at the 'Gaumont' starting next week and Peter did offer to take me, the dear, but I managed to change that to his paying for me to take my friend and fellow fan Susan. He would have been bored rigid the whole evening.”

I smiled at that. I was finally beginning to see what was afoot here.

“Tell me about the competition”, I said.

She looked most surprised, as I had guessed she might.

“That was only in the newspapers this morning”, she said. “Yes, for each of the twenty-four performances she is going to be using a different monogrammed make-up kit containing blusher and lipstick, and people can enter a competition to have the chance to buy each one of the twenty-four. Rather expensive, but she did say that half of the money raised would be going to charity. Peter said that he would enter me for it provided I do not use it when I am out with him; as I said he does not like the look.”

“That is very kind of him”, I said, handing back the borrowed lipstick. “I only hope that your star actress does not have feet of clay, as some idols do these days.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

By this time I knew full well that Miss Harcott did indeed have feet of clay, as well as a sharp money-making talent. But because I liked Peter Greenwood and his wife had been so helpful, I waited until she had seen her performance before alerting the newspapers as to what the actress's real game was.

MDCCCLXXVIII

Watson drew a sharp breath as he read the newspaper that morning. For once he did not have to accidentally glance at the society-pages in passing to see news of Miss Patricia Harcott. She was on the front page!

“This is shocking!” he exclaimed. “It turns out that this woman commissioned loads of these make-up boxes to be made, then planned to tell everyone who had entered the competition that they were one of the lucky twenty-four winners and that their pack would be sent to them once they had sent in their cheque. There were hundreds of entrants so she would have made a small fortune, plus the so-called charity that she had said would benefit was a fraud! They were just building her a nice new house!”

“Shocking indeed!” I agreed with a smile. “But then that is the French for you. Or the Italians.”

He looked at me suspiciously. 

“Did you set this up?” he asked.

“I rather think that Miss Harcott set it up”, I said. “I merely gave it a push so that it fell over. She will not only lose a lot of money on this, her career as an actress will be set back considerably.”

“Only if the Continental newspapers find out”, he corrected.

I knew full well that they did not have to. Thanks to some careful leaks the story had broken in both France and Italy as well in England. Miss Harcott had sacrificed her career on the altar of money, and had likely made a lot of women better-looking in the process.

MDCCCLXXVIII

_Notes:_   
_1) This is either a misprint, or Sherlock has a decidedly curious spelling of the number between fourteen and sixteen._   
_2) This story is based on a real-life character, turn-of-the-century actress Sarah Bernhardt who was pretty much the first lady ever to apply lipstick and make-up while out in public. Until then ladies only ever applied it at home._

MDCCCLXXVIII


	3. When Did You Last See Your Mother?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November-December 1878. In a rare trip out from the capital Sherlock and John travel to Bristol, where a statue has been vandalized. But there is more to matters than meets the eye, and Sherlock has to effect a 'colourful' solution to drive home to the villain involved that no, their behaviour is not acceptable.

I have mentioned before that my friend had a passion for history, which meant that he also liked art which related to historical events. Hence we had come to a private gallery to see Mr. William Yeames's new work entitled 'When Did You Last See Your Father?'

“What is it about?” I asked curiously. “They seem to be questioning that poor boy for some reason.”

“It is from the aftermath of the English Civil Wars”, he explained. “The family has been helping Royalists by hiding them out, so the Army men are questioning the boy. Does he follow his upbringing and be honest in his answer, knowing that to do so will bring destruction on his family? Or should he tell a lie to save them?”

“I suppose that truth is a difficult concept for the young to grasp”, I observed, “especially when they are told about what we call 'white lies'. For example, a lady who asks her husband 'does this make me look fat?' may not be wishing for a truthful answer.”

“Unless her husband is wishing to find out what hospital food feels like!” he retorted. “That is like your mother asking, 'what do you think of my latest crime against literature?'”

I scowled at his attempt at humour.

“Do not remind me”, I said sourly. “She is just finishing off some latest horror and I am going to have to come up with some reason to avoid going round to have it inflicted upon me!”

He snickered unhelpfully, and we moved on to some woman who looked as if she was half-asleep. Or maybe just constipated. Possibly even both!

MDCCCLXXVIII

Being the bastard that he sometimes is wont to be, a soon to be ex-friend and medical acquaintance of mine was still smirking as our train pulled out of Paddington Station.

“Stop it!” I grumbled.

“It was the original Hobson's Choice!” he grinned. “You were fortunate to have a choice, really.”

I suppose that he was correct, but even so that was no reason for him to smirk like that. I hated it when people smirked too much!

MDCCCLXXVIII

What made matters worse was that, deep down, I knew that my friend was right. When Mother had Commanded me to come round to Guilford Street I had offered up the usual desperate prayers, especially as I knew that 'A Somerset Lad' her latest horror which 'thanks' to Mark I now knew was about a seventeenth-century West Country farm-hand who, after the end of the plague in his county, set about repopulating everywhere between Portishead, Exmoor and Chard 'with his massive cultivator', was almost finished. Surely with all those other siblings there had to be some poor suc.... someone else?

Fortunately Mother had wished me to attend to a matter for her, something for which I was intensely grateful (I might have been less so had I known what other matter she would land me in in the not too distant future). Although what she had had to tell me was horrifying enough.

“It is about my friend Betty”, she had said, as if I should somehow instantly know everything about whoever that lady was. “She has written to me about a problem that she is having, so I said that you would sort it for her.”

I suppose that I should have resented being used as a free service like this, but this was my mother and I quite liked breathing so I said nothing. Besides, hopefully this case would enable me to avoid her dreadful story!

“Who is this lady, Mother?” I had asked.

“One of my Outer Circle, dear.”

I had stared at her. Did that make any sense at all? 

She sighed as if I were the one at fault here.

“You know how I have the Writing Circle, dear?” she had said.

I managed not to shudder. Watson, who had been scarred enough by hearing brief mentions of whatever way my mother was committing crimes against English literature, had been horrified when I had told him that Mother had several friends who also wrote such things, and that they met at her house regularly. It was arguably wrong of him to have christened them 'the Coven', a nickname made all the accurate because a lot of them favoured black. And not, as some overly smart medical personage claimed, 'they only ever meet to spread suffering and pain'!

 _Why_ was he my friend, again?

“Well, they are my Inner Circle”, Mother had said. “Then I have my Outer Circle, ladies who live out in the provinces and send me their ideas through the general post.”

A careless son might have quipped at this point that Mother of all people did not need ideas to inspire her, but as I did not like hospital food I had very wisely kept my mouth shut.

“And Betty says that she is worried over this statue thing”, Mother had said. “I did want you to read my latest piece but your father said that I should send you to her in case it was urgent. And he reminded me that Hilton is coming over later.”

I sometimes got the impression that Father did not like Hilton, or Randall for that matter. Oh so thankfully, in this case!

MDCCCLXXVIII

I had therefore promised to sort out matters for Mother's friend, and luckily Watson had a rare week-end off so he was able to accompany me. As, less luckily, was his smirk!

“And all she told you was that it had something to do with a statue”, he mused. “Nothing else?”

“Only that this lady works as a cleaner at Temple Meads Station”, I said, eyeing him warily. “And that the matter involves the police in some way.”

“A crime against a statue”, he said. “Curious.”

We sat reading our newspapers as the train charged ever westwards.

MDCCCLXXVIII

I was initially surprised when we arrived at Brunel's famous station to find it in something of a mess, but I quickly saw the reason why. The Great Western was, at this time, very reluctantly converting its various lines from its famous broad gauge with the rails seven foot and one-quarter inch apart, to the ubiquitous standard-gauge of four foot, eight and a half inches (or as the Company sneeringly called it, 'narrow-gauge'). It was a pity but an inevitable one; the broad-gauge was superior in design but the inconvenience of a break of gauge was always going to force a conversion sooner rather than later, and Watson had once told me that as far back as 'Forty-Six, parliament had decreed that this should be the Company's ultimate goal. It was, I suppose, progress.

Mrs. Elizabeth Brown was working when we arrived but, Mother had told me, was due to finish her shift shortly so we asked if we might speak to her when she did. A railway-manager had looked warily at us and I had had a strong suspicion that he might be the sort to listen in on our conversation, so I had arranged for the lady to meet us at a tea-room that I knew was on the road leading up to the railway-station (I had been to the town once during my time at Oxford, as part of my studies). 

Some little time later the lady herself joined us. She was a short woman in her early to mid-forties, well-presented and clearly awed that we had come in answer to her request. I thought wryly that many in London society would have been shocked that a titled lady like my mother was communicating with a mere cleaner, although I doubted that anyone who found out would have been stupid enough to have remarked on that. Especially as the only idiot to have done so this far (Hilton) had learned the hard way not to stand with his legs apart when Mother had a walking-stick to hand!

“My mother sends her regards”, I said, “and said that you needed my help with some matter over a statue.”

The lady nodded, then her eyes widened when our teas arrived with a tray of cakes. She handled a meringue like she had never seen one before; possibly she had not.

“It is one of Mr. Brunel, sir”, she said.

I stared at her in astonishment. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was of course the great engineer who had designed the Great Western Railway among other things, and had been one of the cleverest men of our century. Why would anyone in their right minds have objected to a statue of that gentleman?

“The great designer?” Watson asked, clearly as perplexed as I was.

The lady shook her head.

“No, sirs. The merchant.”

We continued to stare at her.

“I don't rightly know for sure, but I think he was either a great-uncle or a distant cousin to the engineer Mr. Brunel everyone knows”, she said. “Mr. Eli Brunel; he lived about a hundred years ago. He made a fortune trading out of the docks and built schools and hospitals for the people.”

I was still mostly in the dark although I saw a light of recognition come on in Watson's eyes as he reached for a jam doughnut. I decided to go for a jam cream finger since my sister Moira was nearly a hundred miles away so would not kill me for so doing. At least I hoped not!

“They put up a statue to Mr. Eli Brunel”, I said.

She nodded.

“Sergeant Roberts who lives in the next street to ours, he was very much against it, sirs”, she said. “Don't know why but then he's that sort of person.”

_(I might insert at this point that, in one of those strange coincidences that do happen from time to time, we would come across two policemen in my long and glittering career called Andrew Roberts. Another coincidence was that both were utterly and irredeemably useless; it seemed that even the Good Lord repeated His mistakes occasionally)._

I looked hard at my client. I knew that there was more. She blushed but carried on.

“Three of the local yobs, they covered it with paint, sirs”, she said. “One of them works same place as my boy Derek and he heard them plotting before, so told the police when and where they were going to do it. But nothing was done to stop them.”

I thought for a moment, then smiled.

“I think that I see a way forward”, I said. “We will need to spend a few days in this town, Mrs. Brown, but I think that we shall be able to help secure justice. As it is not far out from dinner I think that we had best start looking for a hotel; would you mind taking the remaining cakes home with you? They will only spoil otherwise, and the doctor and I are both quite full.”

Watson did well not to smile at the lady's eagerness over that.

“Yes, sir!”

MDCCCLXXVIII

We checked into the station hotel and Watson went to make arrangements so he could take a few extra days off, while I wired Moira to make sure the Bloomsbury Surgery complied. He worked hard for them despite not being in full-time employment and I was beginning to think that they were taking advantage of his good nature a little too often. That would stop.

Once he returned I asked him what he knew about Mr. Eli Brunel.

“Nothing”, he said. “He must be famous locally. But I think that I can guess why some people do not like him.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“He likely made his money through the evil slave trade”, he said. “Bristol and Liverpool both became rich on the backs of it around that time, although at least he put some of the money that he made to good use.”

I frowned. I really could not be having with this modern tendency among some people to 'pick and choose' when it came to history. No nation can claim to have a spotless past but ours was better than most, and our sailors were still putting in sterling work driving back the slave trade in less enlightened corners of the world. At the cost of many men's lives, which was something even the 'Times' had admitted quite recently after they had published one such 'pick and choose' article and had then faced the threat of legal action from some disgruntled relatives of those that they had accused unless they published both sides of the story. They had then compounded their error by burying the second article deep inside the newspaper, which had indeed led to a court case that was only dropped when the second article was given the same prominence as the first, and a front-page apology printed as well.

Journalists. Sigh.

MDCCCLXXVIII

The following day there was a man waiting to see us in the hotel lobby. I say man rather than gentleman; there was no way in which the English language could have been stretched to include Sergeant Andrew Roberts as a gentleman. He was in his late forties, balding and with a fierce scowl that did not improve his features. A paper bag on the other hand......

“This is to do with you!” he snorted, waving a piece of paper at us both. “What's your game, sir?”

“I do not play 'games'”, I said simply. “You knew about the forthcoming attack on that statue, yet did nothing. You then hid the records of how you were informed.”

“Prove it!” he sneered.

I reached into my pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper, which I handed to him. He went deathly pale, then looked around the lobby.

“Do not trouble yourself with trying to throw it into a nearby fire”, I said. “It is a copy. A thief friend of mine obtained the original from your police-station last night, and copies have been made for all the local newspapers unless you admit what you did. And your constabulary removes you from office.”

“You will never get away with this!” he all but yelled.

“You have two and a half days left”, I said. “In your position it would be best....”

“Vermin!”

I thought for one moment that he might be about to try to strike me, but Watson coughed pointedly and lifted the handle of his revolver very slightly out of his pocket. The villain took an immediate step back, then turned on his heel and left us. Quickly.

MDCCCLXXVIII

I can say that Sergeant Roberts did the decent thing and admitted to his guilt in this matter. I can say that, but it would be a lie. Instead he actually compounded his sins by dispatching two of his constables round to the Brown household where they tried to threaten Mr. Brown into withdrawing his statement. I was furious!

Several things happened the next day. The local newspapers had a most interesting article about what certain high-ranking officers in the city police had got up to with the secretaries on a 'Discovery Weekend in Weston-Super-Mare'. They were discovered now and their wives were, for some strange reason, not best pleased. I also slipped a note to the police that further investigations were in progress and their results would certainly be supplied to the press over the coming months unless the persecution of my friends stopped _now!_

I was suitably nettled by Sergeant Roberts's actions to warn him that the deadline for his own compliance was now five o' clock that evening. He, apparently, still believed that I was bluffing (yes, he was that stupid). When he arrived home he very quickly realized that I had not been – for his own house had been subjected to exactly the same treatment that those things had, with his connivance, meted out to the statue of Mr. Brunel. 'Bloom House' looked like an explosion in a paint factory, and just in time for the evening newspapers.

The sergeant resigned from the constabulary that same day. Predictably they did try to arrange for a neighbouring force to take him on almost immediately, but after that revelation about the superintendent and the office-cleaner's daughters, they finally, _finally_ got the hint! And to think, these people are paid for out of our rates!

MDCCCLXXVIII


	4. Messages From Margate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 1878. Make-up again, at least of a sort. This was a curious affair and, although Sherlock solved it, it had already set in train a sequence of events that some years later would shock the great detective to the core.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of the unpowdered nose.

Although I did of course take Watson to various plays and performances to which I had been invited 'with a friend', we generally avoided walking around London after dark. Because it was London and it was after dark. However one particular day that last month of the year we did head down to the Thames Embankment to see one of the wonders of the modern age.

“Electric lighting”, I said. “Sadly it will put a lot of lamplighters out of a job but then there will I suppose be other jobs in the manufacture and maintenance of these things.”

“It is odd to think that this was the original port of London”, he said as we strode along the now well-lit street. “That is what the Strand originally meant; a place where ships were stranded so they could be unloaded, then re-floated again at high tide.”

He was such a bookworm at times, but I knew that he enjoyed talking about history and would never get the chance so to do with any of his snooty patients, so I encouraged him.

“But the modern docks are better”, I said. “And this is much better than streets which flood every time the tide comes in.”

“It is sad in a way, though”, he said. “That Civil War painting we saw the other week; that was from a time when the Thames froze over every once a decade or so and they could hold giant Frost Fairs on it. The Embankment and all these new bridges mean the river flows much faster now, so that will likely never happen again.”

“Unless those scientists are right and we get another ice-age”, I countered. “It could happen.”

“Scientists always disagree”, he said dismissively.

We walked on, enjoying the wonders of modern technology. And the fact that we both had our guns with us. Loaded and ready to fire. Because this was after dark and it was London.

MDCCCLXXVIII

Our next adventure was one of the many cases referenced by Watson in passing when he published some of our adventures together, and the sole mention of it drew a surprising amount of attention. But then I suppose that a mystery arising of why a lady did _not_ powder her nose was a little unusual. 

Another reason that this case was not published in the original canon was that ultimately it proved much more important that it might have seemed. For a matter that began with a lady from Margate leaving a last, fateful message was followed some years later by a second message from that Thanet resort, one that would help to wreck my young life completely.

There were no signs of trouble when I received the latter not long before the Lord's Day, and I really wished in retrospect that I had inherited the Sight that I had heard my maternal grand-mother had been possessed of (clearly the Lord himself was listening in at that moment and, showing an arguably wayward sense of humour, would one day make that wish sort of come true but in a way that was incredibly annoying). I was also feeling quite happy as Watson had gone off to work in a good mood that morning; some subtle pressure on certain slow payers at his surgery had resulted in a surge in his bank-account, even if as he said it moved things merely from dire to just about sufferable. 

_(I was later asked by one of John's reader why, given what I was dong to keep my friend's finances in better order, he was still struggling. One reason, I am sorry to say, was that he felt obliged to send any extra funds he could get to his younger brother who as a lawyer was also in one of those professions which had a reputation for paying well but only at the higher levels; I had covertly had Stephen Watson checked out but he was not spending lavishly or anything, which was good)._

As I may have mentioned, my friend liked to decorate our rooms for the festive season. I had little or no interest in such things, but I was compelled to help out in one small way as he was mildly allergic to mistletoe, so while he was out that day I fetched some from a local shop and hung it over our door. Perhaps unadvisedly; our landlady looked horrified when she saw it and went bright red!

Watson chuckled when I told him that on his return, then looked suspiciously around our main room. I had made an effort to tidy things a little, although annoyingly there was still an almost visible dividing line between my side of the room and his.

All right, it was visible. But at least I had tried!

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked. 

“John Hamish Watson, the great detective!” I teased. “Yes, I am expecting a lady visitor. A client, and a rare family friend.”

“Who is coming?” he asked.

“A Mrs. Olivia Fulready”, he said. “She is the sister of the midwife who delivered me into this world of sorrows, the late Mrs. Bethania Garsdale. Mrs. Fulready wrote and asked if she might call on me while she was in London; I presume that her sister's recent death is the reason behind her request.”

“She wishes to consult you over the death?” he asked. “A suspicious one?”

“It may be so”, I conceded. “She is due in about ten minutes so I will use that time to brief you about what little I know of her.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

Some ten minutes later Mrs. Olivia Fulready was shown into our room. She was an elderly but well-presented lady; her husband had I knew died some years back and that she owned a fair-sized house on the sea-front at Margate in Kent where she usually rented out several rooms. In the summer season her late sister Mrs. Garsdale had moved in with her and had rented her own house out to holidaymakers, the ladies sharing the income generated. 

The one slightly odd thing about our visitor, or at least about her late sister, was that Mother had helped out when Mrs. Garsdale's husband had died a few years back. He had left her finances in something of a mess and she had had things sorted out; presumably word had reached the financial sector that one did not upset any acquaintance of Lady Aelfrida Holmes unless one wanted her to drop by and ask why. With one or more of her stories! I also knew that my advent into this world had been difficult in some way and suspected that Mrs. Garsdale had been instrumental in keeping me alive, which was why Mother had later helped her.

_(I was wrong in this, for once, which I shall very fairly record as it was such an extremely rare event. Especially as the truth was, as the truth so often is, worse)._

Our visitor took a seat and lifted her veil.

“I have come to you today”, she said in a low and melodious voice, “because of my sister's murder.”

I managed to remain calm, although I caught Watson's shocked reaction to that.

“The London papers have been mostly interested in this renewal of the Afghan war¹”, I said smoothly. “I read the report of your sister's passing and I of course sent my condolences. I can only say that the report struck me as singularly uninformative, and did not mention any killing or suspicious circumstance. Am I to assume that some detail or other was deliberately withheld from the authorities?”

She nodded, looking around almost as if she feared someone might be listening in on our conversation.

“It was incredibly strange”, she said. “Fortunately Sergeant Butson was very helpful and made sure that certain... information did not reach the newspapers. He felt that if they knew the full details then people might descend on the house; you know how that can happen these days. A murder is bad enough but this.....”

She tailed off. I poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her, then placed a reassuring hand on her free wrist. She smiled weakly at me.

“Be assured, madam, that we will do everything in our power to help you”, I said firmly. “However, we need _all_ the facts. What precisely did the news-papers not get told?”

She took a deep breath before continuing.

“I was the one who found her”, she said, speaking quickly as if getting the words out faster was less painful. “Beth had taken up with the local theatre group; an odd bunch but harmless enough, I thought. I was going to go into town to do some shopping and she was to share my cab then walk the short distance to the theatre. Except that when I went in she.... she was dead! Strangled!”

“The unusual circumstance?” I asked gently. 

She shuddered but answered.

“She had done her face up with that white powder she used for the play or whatever they were doing”, our visitor said. “Her face was all white except for her nose; I thought that very odd. Then it hit me! _He_ might still be in the house!”

“'He'?” I asked, confused.

“The killer!” she hissed, looking around the room as if she almost expected said killer to leap out from behind the screen.

_(I made this observation to Watson after our visitor had gone, and he quipped that that had not been much of a danger as they would have certainly suffered some form of injury had they tried to cross my side of the room. Frankly I do not why I kept him around when he came out with remarks like that!_

_Oh yes. The coffee and bacon thing)._

“I have several questions that I hope you can answer”, I said. “Firstly, what was the weather like that day?”

She looked surprised at that, as did my friend, but she answered readily enough.

“On-off rain”, she said. “Almost sleet at times; I got quite wet hurrying from the cab to the house. Why is that important?”

“I find it strange that your sister would apply face-powder, let alone leaving her nose undone, and then walk through rain”, I said. “Surely she must have realized that when she applied it? It seems irrational, and I do not like irrational. Another question, and I am afraid that I must be a little blunt. Was your sister at all wealthy?”

Our visitor blushed. I sighed; I just knew what was coming next.

“She made ends meet”, the lady said awkwardly.

I shook my head at her.

“Come, madam”, I said. “I can only help you if you are completely honest with me. What are you holding back?”

She seemed to be finding our rug quite fascinating, and I had the distinct impression that she was choosing her words carefully.

“After she assisted at your birth”, she said slowly, “Beth went to work for the Huttons up in Holmfirth, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. A lovely family, their youngest needed constant care or some such thing. She was there for over fifteen years before the break-in.”

“Break-in?” I asked.

“The Hutton Diamonds”, she said softly. “She was lucky that it happened on her half-day or she might have been killed along with the rest of them; she had been supposed to have been at work but she had swapped her day off that week.”

I remembered LeStrade telling me about that case, which had happened just over ten years back. A gang of thieves had broken into the great house and murdered an entire family. Although the villains had all been caught and hung, the diamonds had never been found. 

“You are not suggesting that your sister was in any way involved?” I asked incredulously. 

She shook her head.

“Beth was as shocked as I was by the whole affair”, she said. “The killers persuaded a local lad who worked at the stables to let them in and he got hard labour as a result, despite being simple or whatever it was they called it. All she had from fifteen years of loyal service was a small bequest in the colonel's will and that hideous set of jugs she always displayed so proudly on her mantle-piece. I would not have given them house room!”

I looked up sharply.

“Jugs?” I said, perhaps a little too loudly. “What sort of jugs?”

She looked surprised at my sudden interest but answered.

“A set of six toby-jugs, each of a famous author”, she said. “Mr. Shakespeare was the only one I recognized by sight, although each had the name of the person that they were meant to represent engraved on its plinth. They were.... what is the word?..... caricatures, and quite ghastly. I do hope that she did not leave them to me!”

“Are they still in your sister's house?” I asked urgently.

“Yes”, she said. “Why? Are they important in some way?”

“We must go there at once”, I said, much to her surprise. “Mrs. Fulready, what are your plans for the rest of today?”

“I have an appointment with my sister's lawyers in Whitehall”, she said. “Some papers that need signing, they said. I had arranged to take in a show this afternoon then stay with a friend overnight, but if you think...”

“It is probably best for you to continue with those plans, for now at least”, I said, trying to tone down my anxiety. “The doctor and I will travel to Margate by the first available train; if you leave us your friend's address we will contact you there if we need to.”

She nodded at that, wrote her friend's address on a piece of paper and left.

MDCCCLXXVIII

Sergeant Hopkins looked at us from across his desk. I could see that my mention of the Hutton Diamonds had sparked a reaction, and not a good one.

“Many of us remember _that_ farrago!” he said, his voice bitter. “The press tried to fix the blame on the village constable who was seeing one of the maids in the house. Eventually we got the right man despite them, though to be fair the local newspaper did help by uncovering some piece of evidence or other if I remember rightly. What is your interest in the case, sir?”

“The missing diamonds”, I said calmly. “Something that has crossed my path suggests as to where they may have been hidden. What can you tell us about the aftermath of the case, Hopkins?”

The sergeant scratched his thinning ginger thatch. 

“Constable Kent left the force once the fuss had died down”, he said. “Married his local girl and went abroad somewhere; British Columbia I think though I did hear he did well for himself over there. The gang all got the drop and their accomplice was given hard labour; he must still be inside. It only stayed in the news-papers' line of fire for so long because of that God-awful Mrs. Silverman!”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“The late colonel's sister”, Hopkins said. “She had expected to inherit the whole estate, but the old buffer surprised her and his will left everything except a few odds and sods to charity. There were the usual bequests to servants of course; small cash sums depending on their service, and a very generous legacy for soldier friend of his who had fallen on hard times. We looked into that but he had not been expecting it, plus he had a solid alibi.”

“This Mrs. Silverman was the one who pursued the local constable as being involved?” I asked.

“She did”, he said bitterly. “Mean old thing. It came back on her in the end though. A local reporter called round to talk to her about the case and while he was there she struck one of her own servants. The reporter's brother was in service and he wrote the whole thing up making her look terrible! Karma can work fast at times, I suppose. She talked of suing the newspaper but nothing came of it; I think she moved soon after although I do not know where to. She had just separated from her husband at the time and all I can say was that he was one lucky fellow!”

Watson chuckled at that.

“We shall keep you informed of any developments”, I promised. “Thank you for your help, Hopkins.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

Neither I nor Watson were looking forward to our journey that day, because at the time railway travel in Kent was surely amongst the worst in all England. My friend had explained to me that for some years the South Eastern Railway Company had had the county to itself, but a miscalculation on their part had allowed the rival East Kent (now the London, Chatham & Dover) Railway to build its own route to Dover as well as a much more direct one to the Thanet towns. The unfortunate consequence had been a building war and trains of such poor quality that the London papers advised against all but essential travel in the county. Thus it was with some trepidation that I alighted from our cab at the Chatham's Victoria Station, even though we were of course going first-class.

(For the record, we did not always go first-class because of any snobbishness on our part, nor because that was what was expected of people of our class. Second- and even third-class were still very poor at this time although they were improving, as had been evidenced by that case back in Seventy-Five with the Midland Railway, but until things got a lot better Mother had forbidden me from using third-class. I expect the intelligent reader not to even bother asking if she might not have found out; this was my mother!)

Fortunately our journey was accomplished without incident and in relative comfort. Arriving in the town we made our way to Margate's main police-station where we found a Constable Truelove, an athletic-looking blond fellow of about twenty-five years of age. 

“You'd be the second lot of folks we've had showing an interest in the case today, sirs”, he said, clearly surprised. “Never rains but it pours!”

I looked at Watson in concern.

“May I ask who was the first?” I asked.

“Some sharp-eyed woman wearing a fox fur”, he said. “A Mrs. Argent, the late Mrs. Garsdale's sister, though I was sure she said she only had the one, Mrs. Fulready. Sergeant said she was all right though, so maybe she was a half-sister or some such thing. You never know these days.”

I was immediately suspicious, especially since I knew that argent was another name for silver. As in Silverman.

“When was this?” I asked, looking anxious.

“A few hours ago”, the constable said. “Sergeant said he'd take her round there _via_ her sister's but he came back a couple of hours later. Apparently Mrs. Fulready had gone to London for the day so they couldn't get in; I suppose she went to a hotel to wait.”

“We need to see the house at once”, I said urgently.

“I'll get Jamie – Constable Golding – to take you there”, the constable said. “Sergeant Hopkins wired from London about you, sir, so I know you're all right.”

He called through a door to the back and another blond young athlete looking uncannily like the first constable emerged and smiled at us. We waited by the door for the new constable to fetch the keys.

“Watson”, I whispered, “did you bring your gun?”

“Yes”, he whispered back. I knew that ever since the Kuznetsov case he had taken to being armed on all our adventures, and that he was a better shot than me. “Do you think that I will need it?”

We were interrupted by the return of Constable Golding, who had a frown on his face.

“Sergeant must still have the keys”, he said. “We can't....”

“How far away is Mrs. Garsdale's house?” I interrupted. 

“About ten minutes' walk, sir. Why?”

I did not answer but almost ran out of the door. By the time the two of them had caught me up I had already secured a cab and was clambering into it.

“Hurry!” I called out.

I could see that both men were wondering why we needed a cab for such a short trip. They would soon understand, and in the meantime I had to prepare something else. Or someone.

“Constable”, I said urgently, “when we reach our destination I am going to have to ask you to do something that you will consider highly irregular. It is imperative for both your life and your future career in the police-service that you do _exactly_ what I say, no matter how strange it may seem at the time. Do you understand?”

“But sir...?”

_“Do you understand?”_

I stared deep into his rather unusual blue-purple eyes. His pupils widened and, as I had expected, he buckled. I felt a little sorry forcing him into this, but we needed every man to do his duty in what we were about to face.

“Yes, sir”, he said resolutely.

“Good man”, I said. “We are almost there.”

The cab came to a halt seconds later and I was first out, the other two scrambling after me. I hurried up the garden path and paused to look at the front door which was closed. Then I took the item that I had had ready in my pocket and worked on the lock. It was the work of a few seconds to force it and we hurried inside. I was re-assured when I saw that Watson had put his hand on the gun in his pocket.

As with so many houses of this type the door opened into a long hall-way, and we were not alone for long. Two people emerged almost simultaneously at our entrance, a well-dressed if overly made-up woman in her late forties from a door to the left and a man in his fifties much closer from a door to our right. Constable Truelove gasped.

_“Sarge?”_

“What're you doing here, Truelove?” the man asked. “And who're these people?”

“We are friends of Mrs. Fulready's”, I said smoothly, “and you, Sergeant Butson, are under arrest. Constable, cuff him!”

I had to credit the young constable that, amazingly, he did what I had told him without flinching despite the very obvious come-back that he must have feared. The sergeant was too shocked to stop him, only spinning out of his grip once the handcuffs were secure.

“What's the meaning of this, Truelove?” he demanded angrily. “I'll have you sacked!”

“I rather think that that will be _your_ fate, sir”, I said with a smile. “Mrs. Silverman, I see that your dress looks very expensive. It would be a shame if the good doctor here had to put a bullet into it because you continued your sidling towards the rear exit. Constable?”

The constable strode forward and also handcuffed the woman, who struggled fruitlessly against him.

“You've got nothing on us!” she hissed.

“On the contrary” I smiled pleasantly. “I have two criminals and I also know the whereabouts of the Hutton Diamonds. You can both look forward to an uncomfortable night in the police cells, and when Mrs. Fulready returns this evening we shall see what we shall see.”

MDCCCLXXVIII

It was later the same day. I had wired Mrs. Fulready as to developments and she had replied to say that she would take the first train that she could from London. She arrived at the house at half-past eight and I insisted on ordering in dinner for the three of us and the two constables (who did not object) before I would explain matters. I had moved the set of toby-jugs to the middle of the table around which we were all sat, and thought that if anything our client had understated their sheer awfulness. Sickly green and ugly, I would not have given tuppence for the whole set.

But then appearances could sometimes be deceptive.....

“Now”, I began, “this case all started with the Hutton Diamond robbery, and we all know about that. Except that what we know is not the whole story.”

“Eh?” Constable Truelove said.

“It was originally assumed, especially by the Yorkshire news-papers, that the local police constable was involved in allowing the killers to gain access to the property”, I said. “This, as we later learned, turned out not to be the case. However the second person who came under suspicion, a local lad of limited intelligence, was also innocent. Unfortunately someone took advantage of that lack of intelligence and made sure that the evidence pointed squarely at him. That someone was Mrs. Silverman.”

“How can you know that?” Watson asked.

“The timings”, I said. “Her husband had left her just before the robbery so she was financially desperate. She was the only surviving blood relative of Colonel Hutton so she assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that if he, his wife and his three children all died then she would inherit all. I am not usually vindictive but I would love to have been there when that will was read and she realized that she was getting absolutely nothing!”

I chuckled at that. The others smiled too.

“However”, I went on, “there was still the matter of the famous Hutton Diamonds. It was believed by the press that one of the thieves had hidden them somewhere and that knowledge of their whereabouts went with him to his grave.”

“Did it not?” Mrs. Fulready asked.

“Yes and no.”

They all stared at me in confusion.

“The late Mrs. Hutton suspected some sort of attempt might be made on the jewels one day”, I said, “although sadly she did not foresee that it would cost her not just her life but those of her entire family. She therefore did what some people do in such circumstances. She had a set of fake diamonds made and made a great show of always wearing them and then locking them away securely. The real diamonds, she hid somewhere quite ingenious. Only two other people knew of their whereabouts.”

“Two people?” Watson asked.

“Her husband the colonel, and the lady who was her most reliable servant, the late Mrs. Bethania Garsdale.”

“Where are they, then, sir?” Constable Truelove asked.

I smiled.

“Let me continue with the story for the moment”, I said. “I do not know how but Mrs. Silverman came to realize something of what had been done. Presumably one of the criminals who took the fake diamonds and realized what they were managed to tell a fellow inmate, who sought out Mrs. Silverman on his own release and offered to 'share the loot' for his knowledge. She therefore knew that the items were in Mrs. Garsdale's possession, though not exactly where.”

“She tracks down her quarry and waits her chance to strike. But on the day in question it chances that her victim sees her coming up the path to the house. She knows that she is doomed so her thought is to leave some sort of clue as to the whereabouts of the diamonds, a clue that will hopefully be uncovered by someone other than her killer.”

“When Mrs. Fulready told me about the collection of toby-jugs based on famous authors, I immediately saw the connection. If I was right then one of them should be of the French author Monsieur Cyrano de Bergerac whose works I have to say I utterly and completely abhor. Upon checking the jugs after the arrests of the two criminals I found that that was indeed the case.”

“What about the sergeant?” Constable Golding put in.

“I believe that Mrs. Garsdale took him to the house”, I said, “then offered to 'split the loot' with him once it was found.”

“But what about the other criminal?” Watson asked. “The one who originally told her.”

“Most probably 'pushing up daisies' somewhere beneath Mrs. Silverman's garden”, I said dryly. “I suspected the sergeant because of the distances involved; it was ten minutes' walk from the police station to this house yet we were told that the sergeant was gone for two hours. He was helping her search, and returned there after ending his shift that day.”

I picked up the toby-jug of Moneieur de Bergerac and Watson gasped in realization.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “The nose!”

I smiled at him.

“Exactly”, I said. _“That_ was the message that Mrs. Garsdale so cleverly conveyed to us. By leaving her nose unpowdered she was saying that _noses_ were important. And which of the authors portrayed in these hideous pieces of pottery has the largest proboscis?”

I picked up the toby-jug and worked loose the small pad in the bottom, shaking out the contents inside. At first nothing emerged but some poking with a finger extracted first some cotton padding, then a slew of brilliant clear gemstones tumbled onto the table and sparkled in the weak December sun. They all stared at them in shock.

(All right, I had checked that they were there earlier and that they were the real ones, but I always enjoyed having a moment like this. After all, I had earned it).

“I am sure, constables, that it would only be right and proper for you to inform Mrs. Silverman of our find”, I said with a smile. “You might also contact her home constabulary and ask them to check round her property for any recently dug areas. Who knows what – or who – they may dig up?”

MDCCCLXXVIII

I was as usual proven right and the recently-released Mr. Jack Burnside was found under a newly-dug flower-bed in Mrs. Silverman's garden. She was hung for her crime while the sergeant spent several years doing hard labour, after which he thankfully quitted the country. I made sure to secure a pardon for the poor simpleton who had been wrongly jailed and as his reward asked that a fund be set up so he could live his life somewhere safe and happy. The situation regarding the ownership of the diamonds was mercifully settled when the administrators of the late colonel's estate wisely agreed to split the proceeds from their sale equally with Mrs. Fulready, who had one of them made into a diamond pendant as a memorial to her late sister. 

Who unbeknown to everyone had also bequeathed her something else – something quite shocking!

MDCCCLXXVIII

_Notes:_  
_1) The Second Anglo-Afghan War. Like most such conflicts it came about because the British were not prepared to tolerate neighbouring rulers who cosied up to their enemies, in this case a Russia which was once again seeking an Indian Ocean port. It lasted for two years and the British were eventually successful in their aims, annexing some lands to British India and making the emirate into a British protectorate._

MDCCCLXXVIII


	5. If I Had A Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 1879. Sherlock seizes the opportunity to take is friend to another cathedral city, this time Salisbury in Wiltshire. The owners of a small hotel just north of the city are threatened with being bought out by a consortium who wish to knock their building down and replace it with a larger one on their new golf course across the road – can the great detective stop the bulldozers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newhart crossover.

“Of course, you never met George.”

I stared at my brother Logan in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. It was bad enough when potential clients started their narratives in the middle of events; when one of the precious few relatives that I could tolerate without wishing to resort to murder did it, that was even worse! That he was sat there wearing a dressing-gown and little besides did not help, and had not be been virtually in the lap of a very muscular Ajax who was growling in a way that suggested my departure from here would be followed by my own brother having..... I had terrible relatives!

To cap it all I had had an upset to my plans subsequent to my recent case in Kent. I had planned to divert to Canterbury while we were in the Garden of England so that Watson could see another (and possibly the most famous) of his beloved big churches, but unfortunately a telegram from one of his most important clients had somehow caught us up in Margate and he had had to hurry back to the capital. Damnation!

“One of your 'boys”, I asked. 

He shook his head.

“No, our former odd-job man”, he said. “He went back to Wiltshire to care for his sick mother and stayed on there as an odd-job-man at a local hotel, much the same as he did here. Poor fellow always got so embarrassed when one of our clients mistook him as being 'one of the boys'. He is.... not exactly simple but he comes across as sometimes a bit less than all there.”

“Yes, I remember him”, I said.

“Whereas my 'boys' are of course _all_ there!”

I shook my head him. He was almost as bad as Watson!

“What of him?” I asked.

“He wrote to me asking if I might approach you about a problem that he has”, he said. “The owners of his hotel have had an offer to buy them out. Jack, I told you that I would have to talk with Sherlock over this!”

“You talk too much”, Ajax grumbled. “Me get impatient.”

My brother yelped as he was all but engulfed by the behemoth.

“A less than generous offer, I suppose”, I said, pointedly moving my head as if to get round the two huge muscular arms now entombing my brother. He gently lowered said arms earning himself a dissatisfied growl.

“Actually no”, he said. “That was what made George suspicious. His employers, the Loudons, could easily set themselves up elsewhere with the money on offer but they like the New Hart Hotel and do not wish to move.”

“Where in Wiltshire is it?” I asked, thinking of a certain gentleman from that county who I had met only once many years ago but who had left an indelible impression on my young life. 

“Stratford-sub-Castle, just north of Salisbury”, he said. “It is right next to Old Sarum, where they had that rotten borough¹. Watson would love that with his interest in history.”

“True”, I agreed, “and the cathedral would be nearby as well. I shall arrange some time off for him, then you can write to George and tell him that we shall be visiting his hotel.”

He smiled at that for some reason.

“What?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh nothing”, he said airily. “It is good to see you caring so much for another human being for once. Even if he is 'just a good friend'.”

I had seen politicians manage more sincerity than that! I sincerely hoped that Ajax finished him once I was gone – which from the way he was already enfolding my brother once more, was all too likely!

MDCCCLXXIX

Fortunately Watson's surgery proved easy to deal with, as I merely told them that a rich client in the county needed his personal services for a full week and would pay accordingly. Then I went round to see Mark who, to my surprise, was in an even worse state than at our last encounter.

“I thought that you were packing Tiny off to the country?” I asked.

He stared blearily at me.

“I did”, he sighed. “As you know, his mother left his father recently – not before time, I might add; I had been monitoring things down there for him – and I helped to find her a place in Newbury. He was worried about her.”

“Newbury?” I asked, surprised. “Is that not close to where his father lives?”

“He lives some miles out into the country and she has a sister in the town”, Mark explained. “Tiny was worried about her settling in so I sent him down for a long weekend to see that she was all right. He is off later today.”

“After he had seen to you, I would wager!” I grinned.

“Worse!” he sighed. “He came round earlier with Balin and Balan, and told them that they could do what they liked with me while he was gone!”

“You are a glutton for punishment”, I said reprovingly.

“I am”, he admitted. “They will be back from church soon – which is appropriate as I have not got a prayer!”

He was almost as bad as Logan, damn him!

“I wondered if you could find out something for me”, I said, shaking my head at him. “It concerns a company called Cherry Tree Golfing. They are trying to buy out a hotel called the New Hart in Salisbury, Wiltshire; Logan knows someone who works there.”

“Sure”, he said. “Once I get back to the office. _And can sit down!”_

As I said, a glutton for punishment. Especially as I passed the twins on my way out, and they looked all too eager to get back to ‘work’.

As I also said, it really was a miracle that I had turned out so well-balanced and sensible, especially given that they say many naturally brilliant men do not. I may have said as much to Watson on the odd occasion, and he always agreed with me whole-heartedly. Almost too whole-heartedly some might have said, but I suppose that he was just trying to make sure I knew just how right I was. As if that was a problem!

MDCCCLXXIX

My friend was of course delighted to come down to Wiltshire for me, especially when I pointed out that we would be next to Old Sarum and within a short cab ride of the cathedral. _So delighted that he decided to go and give me another panic-attack!_

“I do not believe that they approached Peter over this Zulu thing”, he said over dinner that evening. 

I stared at him on confusion.

“Your friend is treating a Zulu warrior?” I asked.

He chuckled at that.

“No”, he said. “This stupid new war against the Zulus in southern Africa, just because the politicians are afraid that the Boers will conquer them first and gain that outlet to the Indian Ocean that would make them a regional power. And reduce our chances of having a Cape to Cairo dominance.”

I had always wondered just what the Continental Nations saw in the Dark Continent. Apart from certain obvious 'pinch points', such as the Cape and the Suez Canal with its adjoining Red Sea, there seemed little point in acquiring land there except to curb the vile slave trade and, rather more importantly for our Continental cousins, to have land so that someone else did not have it. Sigh.

“Why did they approach our friend?” I wondered. “Surely as a newly-married man he would be exempt?”

“The usual official mess-up”, he sighed. “They were trying to reach a Doctor Peter _Good_ wood who is single. I suppose that there will be a demand for medics out there, especially with the Afghan mess going on at the same time.”

Too late, I saw the danger. Like with that damnable Egypt thing my friend's innate patriotism might well lead him to proffer his own services to the Nation. He looked at me curiously when I did not speak – I could not, just then – but carried on with his dinner.

Phew!

MDCCCLXXIX

The following day we adjourned to Waterloo Station and a London & South Western train to the cathedral city. I had been concerned that the recent heavy snowfall might delay out trip but the railways were used to dealing with the vagaries of nature, and we were able to leave as planned.

“It seems a bit strange, wanting to build a golf-course next to somewhere as historic as Old Sarum”, he said as we sped westwards. 

“I suppose that not everyone has your regard for history”, I said. “We shall have to see what the place is like, and I have had Mark start looking into the company making them the offer.”

He sniggered at that for some reason.

“What?” I asked.

“I had to treat Balin for a sprain on Thursday”, he said, “and Balan told me that they were 'booked in' for your brother this whole weekend. Also that a certain gentleman not a million miles away from here had most generously given them a voucher for a certain local shop that does some rather interesting 'supplies’!”

He looked pointedly at me. I had no idea why; I was just making sure that Mark was not so prideful the next time that we met. 

_If there was a next time!_

MDCCCLXXIX

The New Hart Hotel was a medium-sized establishment pleasantly situated by the River Avon a little way north of the city, and with a clear view across to Old Sarum which, in my opinion, was like Chartley Castle an uninteresting flat-topped hill with a few stones on it. I did not say that to Watson, of course.

Mr. Richard Loudon and his wife Joanna were the proprietors of the hotel, a middle-aged and pleasant couple whose establishment was I thought surprisingly full for mid-January. I wondered that they did not try to expand themselves but they were able to explain that.

“You cannot see it but the hotel is on a slight rise here”, Mr. Loudon said, “with marshes either side of it and the river behind. We could apply to have the marshes drained but it would be prohibitively expensive.”

“I wonder at why this company wishes to buy you out”, I said. “If that is the case, then surely they cannot build much on this side of the road?”

“They are planning a new hotel for both our trade and all their golfers”, Mrs. Loudon explained. “Or so they said; we presumed that they did not want the competition, although from the plans that we have seen their new place will be at least twice the size of ours. They plan to turn this place into regular cottages.”

I thought that even more curious. The company's hotel might well have forced this place out of business and so have avoided any need to buy them out. Unless...

“Have you had any guests from the company staying here at all?” I asked.

“No”, Mr. Loudon said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I rather think that they soon will”, I said. “I suspect that there is more to this company than meets the eye, and hopefully my investigations in London will be able to uncover just what. I noticed that there is a tavern a little way down the road to the city; do you know if they have received an offer?”

“They have not”, Mr. Loudon said, “and Joss was disappointed at that. But then unlike here the ground by his place is dry and he could easily expand the Red Lion northwards in the direction of the new course. The nineteenth hole, as they say.”

“This is most interesting”, I said. “If I may, I would like to look at your guest-lists from about a month before you received the company's offer.”

“I shall fetch them for you, sir”, Mrs. Loudon said, looking at me in a way that had Watson rolling his eyes for some reason, and Mr. Loudon very pointedly looking out of the window. It was a good thing that I did not smirk at times like this, whatever anyone said.

MDCCCLXXIX

I had a second and arguably less noble motive for my interests in the lists, and that was because history has always pretty much bored me. I knew enough of my character to know that Watson would see this and it might well mar his enjoyment of his old churches and stone-covered hill-tops, so I suggested that as I had some idea as to what I was looking for, he should go off exploring while I stayed behind. My reward was that he looked truly happy when he came back, which would have been enough in itself – except that I found two more things. Mark sent me a telegram confirming who was behind Cherry Tree Golfing, and although there were no names that I recognized in the lists, there _was_ an address.

I went to find Mr. George Utley, the odd-job-man. He was then about fifty years of age, solid and much as I remembered his appearance did indeed suggest that he was maybe not quite all there. However he remembered meeting me and was willing to answer my questions, although my first one clearly surprised him.

“I believe that you have a half-sister, sir?”

“Yes sir”, he said. “Pansy, from Dad's second marriage. A right tartar; she was one reason I wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to the smoke.”

“I am sorry to have to ask you such a personal question”, I said, “but did either your late father or mother leave you anything of value?”

He looked understandably surprised at that but answered readily enough.

“Dad's lawyer came down with something when he died”, he said. “Typical of him, really; a set of gold-plated miniature tools. Useless things, but they look good in their box.”

“Where do you keep them?” I asked.

“Normally in my room here, sir”, he said. “We had a jeweller and his wife down from London a time back and he took an interest in them; he said he could give me a fair price for them. Don't know why but he made me uneasy, so I had Mr. Loudon put them in his safe until he was gone. They're still there.”

“I think that you were most wise in so doing”, I said. “Thank you, George.”

I tipped him and went on my way.

MDCCCLXXIX

I sent a telegram to Mark thanking him and recommending a certain course of action, which I guessed would yield results sooner rather than later. My horrible sort of relative sent back that he would do as I asked once he could stand again, as Tiny had been very, _very_ glad to see him after his trip west, and he would be ‘out of commission’ for several days. Honestly!

Fortunately he must have been able to do something as some four days later a telegram arrived at the hotel requesting a room for two nights for a 'Mr. Smith'. I told Watson what I expected to happen and, as I had known he would be, he was immediately up for it.

“Will I need my gun?” he asked.

“Better safe than sorry”, I said. “This gentleman is not known to be armed, but the person who is employing him is playing for high stakes. We do not want to risk anyone getting hurt.”

That was also why I arranged that just as this 'Mr. Smith' was checking in, George was being told by Mr. Loudon to enjoy his visit to his friend down in Portsmouth. The guest was good; there was not even a flicker of reaction.

MDCCCLXXIX

The following morning I had more than a little explaining to do to Mr. and Mrs. Loudon, primarily as to why I had had three local constables up to their hotel in order to arrest one of their guests for attempted theft.

“I shall start with what you may or may not consider bad news”, I said. “Cherry Tree Golfing does not exist.”

“What?” Mr. Loudon exclaimed.

“This all goes back to your odd-job-man of all people”, I said. “George was the issue of his father's first marriage, which ended in a divorce. The latter's second marriage then resulted in the birth of one Miss Pansy Utley. Mrs. Pansy Shere as she became was not just an unpleasant woman but a spendthrift, particularly as her father was a jeweller of some renown and she expected to be very rich when he passed even if she would have to split his estate with her half-brother. So her father did pass – but to her horror there was hardly any money in his estate. She and her daughter faced ruin.”

“The late Mr. Utley had clearly done something with his money, but what? The obvious answer seemed to be that he had passed it in some way to his son George. A few days ago I took those gold-plated tools of his into a shop in Salisbury and they confirmed what I had suspected. They were indeed gold-plated and themselves worth very little – except that they had been hollowed out, and inside were a number of diamonds and other precious stones.”

Everyone gasped at that.

“Mrs. Shere obtained the services of her own jeweller”, I said, “then disguised herself and came here as that gentleman's wife. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – people find it surprisingly difficult to tell lies. Although she wrote her fake name in the guest-book, she used her _real_ address which I had learned from my inquiries. Her jeweller approached her brother and was allowed to examine the tools, establishing that they were likely hollow so therefore hiding something inside, but fortunately George became suspicious and had the tools placed in the hotel safe. The fact that you received that generous offer for the hotel soon after was not a coincidence; the prospective owners would have insisted on a full day examining the place and would have used that to break into the safe if needed. By letting Mrs. Shere know that I was on the case I caused her to send down a hired thief to try to seize the jewels, which is why you had someone arrested in your hotel.”

“Thank you so much, Mr., Holmes”, Mrs, Loudon smiled, giving me another look that had her husband looking vexed for some strange reason. “We shall never be able to repay you!”

“You might try extra bacon at breakfast!” said something who.... actually had a good point.

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_   
_1) A parliamentary constituency with few or, in this case, no voters living there. The local landowner would register some of their tenants as owning property and then tell them how to vote – OR ELSE! It was abolished along with all other such seats in the 1832 Great Reform Act; its replacement Salisbury which was also a dual-member seat survived until after this story is set, losing one of its seats under the Redistribution of the Seats Act (1885) before being replaced by a county division in 1918 that was also called Salisbury. As of 2021 it included outlying areas as far afield as Downton, Alderbury, Amesbury and Wilton._

MDCCCLXXIX


	6. The Fountain-Pen Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 1879. One of the running jokes about Sherlock in the newspapers was that he would solve everything down to the recovery of a lost fountain-pen. Here he did just that – well, sort of – much to the shock of John's lawyer brother.

I did not like to see my friend depressed, and thanks to the wonders of the modern telegraphic system, the monumental cock-us of some idiotic British commander down in southern Africa could now be relayed to us in record time. Along with the casualty figures.

“How?” Watson wondered. “We had machine-guns and they had spears!”

“Because we had Frederick, Baron Chelmsford¹ and they had someone who actually knew what they were doing”, I said shortly. “Did you not mention to me one time about how numbers were not always decisive?”

He looked surprised at that remark. He was smart and he must have sometimes wondered if I only listened to him talk about history to humour him (which was true but not something that I wished him to know).

“But outnumbered ten to one is pushing things”, he said. “At least we salvaged something in this skirmish afterwards when they failed to take the mission-station at a place called Rorke's Drift².”

I was pleased at that. Not just for the British victory but because a short campaign would make it less like that I would los.... that Watson would want to go over there.

MDCCCLXXIX

One of the things that my friend and I agreed on was the unnecessary fuss made over the annual attempt to sell as many chocolates and flowers as possible, or St. Valentine's Day as it was officially known. Quite why the normally reliable Miss Hellingly had sent up heart-shaped cakes to two gentleman along with our breakfast, I had no idea. And to cap it all Watson was staring incredulously at the card that Susan, the maid, had just brought to our rooms.

_”Stevie?”_

I squinted at him from across the table. He should have known better to have started a conversation before I had a set amount of caffeine in my veins of a morning, although I was sure that I was not as bad of a morning as some family members claimed. I had only scared myself that one time when looking in the mirror before breakfast.

One-ish.

_“What?!”_

I did not know why he rolled his eyes at me like that, nor for that matter why Susan was sighing and looking at me in that way as she laid out the breakfast things. Come to that, why was she bringing a card up at this ungodly hour of a morning? Everyone knew that I was.... not best prepared to receive clients Before Bacon.

“It is my brother”, Watson said. “But what is he doing down here? He should be still on his course up in Edinburgh.”

I downed a steaming hot cup of the blesséd coffee and sighed happily. At least some things were right with the world, if one excluded damnably inconsiderate relatives of friends arriving at unsociable hours. 

“We had better have him here and find out”, I said. “Susan, please send Mr. Watson straight up.

MDCCCLXXIX

Mother had of course had Stephen Watson fully checked out, so I knew something about our visitor (rather too much if truth be told; quite how Moira had found out about the birthmark on _that_ part of his anatomy I did not wish to ask!). Watson did not like the fact that his brother was taller than him but he was close to the fellow, despite their living so far apart. I had come to suspect that this closeness was a little one-sided as I had noted that my friend wrote to him frequently but received relatively few letters in reply. And this in spite of the financial support that my friend provided as and when he could.

Stephen Watson was twenty-two then, and clearly one of those unfortunate gentlemen who were far too proud of the looks that the Good Lord had given them (my brother Mark was in some ways similar which was why Tiny kept getting free gifts of 'supplies' from a certain shop to help curb that vanity). That our visitor was repeatedly patting his chestnut locks (expensively styled, I noted with displeasure) was not a good sign, even if Watson was clearly pleased to see him. That he had attended us when there was bacon to be had was also a mark of rank inconsideration.

“I am sorry to drop by unannounced like this, John”, the lawyer said. “But the company felt that the matter was so urgent they wished for me to see you in person, rather than risk a telegram or a letter.”

In his last communication this gentleman had boasted to my friend that the Edinburgh lawyers with whom he had had his placement while studying at the nearby university had pledged to take him on full-time once he graduated. I had been impressed; even the likes of Hilton might have found it difficult to stretch one boast over three full pages.

“What matter?” I asked. 

The lawyer sighed, and invariably patted his hair again. I was beginning to see why Watson had suggested he might send him a hair-brush for his next birthday present!

“We have been engaged by a Mr. and Mrs. John McDougall as regards a disputed inheritance”, our visitor said.

I looked at him curiously. That did not seem particularly important. He caught my expression and smiled.

“It is their cousin whose inheritance they wish to secure who is the problem, as such”, he said. “One Miss Anne Brown – _the aunt of a Mr. John Brown!”_

 _Now_ I could see the elephant-sized problem in the room. In one of those frequent examples of being careful what one wished for, many in society and in particular in the newspapers had come to criticize our Queen for her almost complete withdrawal from society and her duties after the death of her husband Prince Albert back in 'Sixty-One. A period of mourning was all very well, but hers had lasted for far too long in the eyes of most people. Even some politicians had said how much they wished she could be encouraged back to her old self, a rare thing as most of them wisely kept clear of royal matters.

The gentlemen of Westminster had gotten their wish, albeit in a way that they had not liked one little bit. Her Majesty had been coaxed out of her self-imposed retirement by one of her servants, a blunt Scottish ghillie called John Brown whose closeness to her had of course inspired much comment. Any scandal surrounding a relative of his would immediately be front page news; the ever bold cartoonists were often depicting 'Mrs. Brown and her husband'. I frankly doubted the veracity of these rumours – I had seen pictures of the ghillie and he was absolutely nothing like the late Prince Albert, let alone the Queen's own moral rectitude – but as Watson so rightly said, it was not always the truth that counts but people's perceptions, even if those were often coloured by the sort of society-magazines that a certain medical person not far from here definitely did not keep in the second drawer down of his bedside cabinet.

“What is the problem, exactly?” I asked. 

Mr. Watson took a deep breath before beginning.

“Miss Brown was nearly eighty when she died”, he said, “and surprisingly well-off for someone of her station in society. She had as you might guess never married, but when young she had been wooed by a young laird. He had been rejected by her parents as being too poor, but he later came into great wealth. He too never married and died childless some twenty years back; apart from the usual bequests to servants and the like, he left his entire estate to her. It comprised a large number of investments plus a house on the eastern outskirts of Glasgow which she wisely sold – the city was about to expand around it – and purchased herself a medium-sized property in a small village called St. Monan's in eastern Fifeshire, where she lived in some comfort.”

“And, I would wager, with frequent visits from her nearest relatives”, Watson smiled.

Our visitor shook his head at my friend's cynicism, but he just stared back at him.

“All right”, the lawyer admitted, “several of them did try to get on her good side. However Jack – Mr. Tranter, her companion – said that she had a way of seeing through sycophancy.”

“She had a _male_ companion?” I asked, surprised. Such things were common among gentlemen but I had never heard of a lady with one.

“She was not easy to get on with, to put it mildly”, our visitor admitted, “but she took to Jack when he came to her house one day. He was only seventeen at the time, six or seven years back. He had been playing football with his brothers in the fields nearby and the ball had gone into her garden. I think after all those relatives trying to butter her up she came to value someone who would tell her to her face when she was being, in his words, 'a right old bossy-boots!'”

“An admirable character trait, to admit failings like that”, Watson said, far too innocently. 

I stared at him suspiciously and he blushed. Hmm.

 _“Please_ go on”, I said, shooting my friend a warning look.

“Jack said that the only of her relatives she did take to was her paternal great-nephew Mr. John MacDougall, who is now our company’s client”, the lawyer said. “She did not think much of his wife, I suspect because they were of a similar temperament, but that lady was wise enough to avoid contact where possible. A smart move on her part; I could name several clients or relatives of clients who would have been well-advised to have done the same. Also Mr. MacDougall named his second daughter after his great-aunt which I think helped matters, and it was generally assumed that after the usual bequests to servants and charities he would inherit the bulk of the estate.”

I had been busy helping myself to bacon while he had been talking, and for some reason our visitor quirked an eyebrow when Watson automatically handed over two of his own rashers to me. I had no idea why; that was just the way things were.

“What about the companion?” Watson asked. “Was he to inherit anything?”

The lawyer frowned for some reason. 

“She had drawn up a will some five years back”, he said, “and which was signed and witnessed properly. She was with a group of lawyers in nearby St. Andrew’s back then but I understand that the senior partner resigned and she did not feel much confidence in his replacement, so she came to us. Her judgement proved most wise in this case; the new head of the company decamped to France with much of his clients’ funds, although thankfully he was caught and the moneys all returned.”

“To answer your question John, under this first will Mr. Tranter received an amount that was fitting for his work; a little more than, perhaps. But matters changed about three months ago when a second great-nephew – from the maternal side of her family so no relation to Mr. MacDougall – came out of the woodwork. Lieutenant Harold Marks-Hall was discharged from the Army with an injury and seemed to have made a favourable impression on his great-aunt.”

I looked at him sharply. I had had more than enough in the way of semantics with Randall as a brother.

 _”Seemed_ to have made?” I queried.

“You will see why I chose those words soon enough”, our visitor said. “Two weeks ago it was clear that Miss Brown was fading, so when I received a request to visit her at her house I went immediately. She told me that she wished to rewrite her will and leave the bulk of the money to her military great-nephew; her companion and the MacDougalls would only get a very small amount each.”

I looked hard at him again. He was a lawyer so I would not have expected the whole truth. I knew that there had to be more.

“I admit that my preference is against the newcomer, who I do not trust at all”, he admitted. “The MacDougalls are decent enough, if a little prideful, while there is something about the lieutenant that does not quite ring true. I told Miss Brown that as her lawyer I was obliged to warn her that, in writing the MacDougalls almost out of her will completely, she would leave it open to challenge on the grounds that she had been unsound of mind when making it, and that such a challenge might in my opinion be successful. Also even if it were not, it would considerably drain the estate in legal fees. She took my point – as I said, despite her age she much preferred people to speak plainly – so it was decided that after the aforementioned other bequests some three-quarters of the estate would go to the lieutenant and one-quarter to the MacDougalls. In fairness I should add that they are quite well-off and the lieutenant is not, although that is because the latter's own fecklessness more than any lack of funds.”

“What was the opinion of her companion on this change?” I asked.

He looked surprised at that question, as did Watson.

“He said that his mistress was free to leave her moneys to whomsoever she wished”, he said. “He shares his mistress's opinion when it comes to Mrs. MacDougall but he does not like the lieutenant at all. His own bequest was unchanged, by the way.”

I pressed my fingers together and thought for a moment. This was a most curious case.

“This is fascinating”, I said at last. “What went wrong with the new will, pray?”

Our visitor baulked at that (at least it stopped him playing with his hair!).

“How did you know that?” he demanded.

“It seemed likely”, I smiled. “Do continue.”

“I promised to return as soon as I could with the new will”, Mr. Watson said, looking suspiciously at me. “Usually our clients come to the office and we are able to use staff members as witnesses but as I said Miss Brown was in too weak a state for that. When I returned I could see that she was having second thoughts about the change, and Jack suggested that we might set things up so that she could sign and make it legal in her own time.”

So it had been the _companion_ who had suggested that. As I had expected.

“I had of course brought a copy of the new will”, our visitor went on, “the original for her to keep and the copy to be held in our office. We agreed that when – or if – she chose to sign them, Jack would bring my copy round to me in person immediately, rather than risk trusting it to the general post. Under Scots law witnesses do not have to be present at the actual signing provided they are there when the signing seal is broken, they read through what they are putting their names to, and that they sign within seven days.”

“So this new will would only come into force once the lady put her signature on it?” I asked. 

Mr. Watson nodded and took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket.

“Miss Brown was as I said very much in two minds about the whole thing”, he said. “She died last week and it seemed that she had changed her mind back – until Jack delivered the new will to me the day after her death. So I thought that she had left it mostly to the lieutenant after all.”

“You thought?” Watson asked, clearly puzzled. “How could you be unsure if he had or not?”

“Because when I opened the will that she had sent me – _it was unsigned!”_

Watson stared at him in surprise. I smiled to myself; I could see how this had been done now, More importantly, I could see who had done it.

“Did the copies get switched?” Watson wondered. 

His brother shook his head.

“I immediately repaired to the house and checked the copy that I had left her”, he said. “That too was unsigned. I cannot see why she sent an unsigned will to me.”

“Perhaps she changed her mind yet again?” Watson suggested. 

The lawyer shook his head again.

“She was most punctilious about such things”, he said firmly. “There would have been an accompanying letter or note, however short. But I have not yet come to the strangest part of all.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“One of the servants told me that he had _seen_ her sign the will with her special fountain-pen!”

He said that as if he were announcing some shocking revelation. I suppose that it might have been to my friend, at least. Not to me of course.

“Miss Brown had a favourite fountain-pen”, Mr. Watson explained, “which she always used and no other. She employed a distinctive blue-violet ink in it; all her legal documents had it. She was quite possessive over the thing.”

“So why did she send you an unsigned will?” my friend asked, his head clearly spinning. “This makes no sense at all.”

I smiled knowingly.

“When did the fountain-pen disappear, pray?” I asked.

The lawyer was aghast.

“You could not possibly know that!” he protested. “She had left it to Jack in her will, but when he went to get it it was gone from the desk drawer where she always kept it. He searched high and low but could not find it anywhere.”

I chuckled.

“This was an excellently planned crime”, he said. “I only hope that the criminal mastermind does not carry on in this way as they would doubtless give the Edinburghshire Police a very hard time.”

“You know who did it?” our visitor demanded. “Even how it was done?”

“Of course.”

I caught Watson smiling at his brother's confusion. That was rather uncalled for; I would never had done that to any of my.... well, not to all of my.... it was uncalled for anyway.

“How?” our visitor demanded.

“That depends”, I said. “But if you come back tomorrow I should be able to tell you.”

He scowled, but rose to depart. My eyes narrowed as he veered on his way out rather too close to the table where our breakfast things were waiting; Watson had said that his brother was intelligent so surely he would not.....

Apparently he would.

The fellow shrieked in alarm, his hand an inch away from the central platter. I had materialized right behind him.

_”Touch my bacon and die!”_

He yipped in horror and fled from the room, Watson laughing as he went. Honestly, touching _my_ bacon? What was wrong with the fellow?

MDCCCLXXIX

“Why could you not tell Stevie the solution yesterday?” Watson asked as we waited for his brother's return some twenty-four hours later. He had received a telegram asking if it was safe to return; he had been fortunate not to have actually touched one of my rashers or his brother might now be an only child. The last person to come between me and bacon had been Randall when I had been fourteen; I had nearly cried which had resulted in Mother dragging the pest over her knee and giving him six of the best.

Happy memories!

“I wished to talk with my brother Carl as he in the Army”, I said. “He knew quite a lot about the lieutenant and was able to tell me of his true character. Which will be important in securing justice here.”

He looked sharply at me.

“Justice or the law?” he asked.

“Always justice”, I smiled.

MDCCCLXXIX

Mr. Watson was very clearly keeping his distance from me after his egregious mistake the day before. Watson was not even trying not to smirk at his sibling's discomfiture. I suppose that in the circumstances I had to allow him that.

“I have to tell you”, I began, “that the will Miss Brown sent to you did indeed contain her last wishes. The main beneficiary is therefore Lieutenant Marks-Hall who my brother Carl tells me is spoken of in Army circles with regret, namely that he did not get shot dead in his time with them. Although several of his former colleagues have said that they would willingly volunteer to remedy that – _free of charge!”_

“The lieutenant has threatened to take legal action if or when we enforce the original will that does not include him”, Mr. Watson said, still eyeing me warily. “He claims that the will was signed and must have been tampered with by the company, even though I had the two would-be witnesses with me when I opened it and they confirmed that the signing seal was unbroken. But Miss Brown did not sign it.”

“I am afraid that you yourself, Mr. Watson, are about to discover the difference between justice and the law”, I said. “It is difficult although not impossible to prove that the will was signed – but _you_ will have to decide if that is what you wish to try to do.”

The lawyer stared at me in confusion. 

“Miss Brown's companion Mr. Tranter was very clever”, I said. “He could see that the lieutenant might well win his mistress round to re-writing her will, as indeed he did. So he took measures. While his mistress was still considering what to to, he took the spare copy of the will to a lawyer's office and obtained a third copy. That copy, obviously unsigned, was the one which he sealed up and then brought round to your offices on his mistress's death. The only way that you might be able to prove it is if you can find the company whose services they employed. A lawyer might well remember the oddity of being asked to make a copy that would normally have been done by the lady's own lawyers, although I am sure that Mr. Tranter concocted some explanation as to why it was necessary.”

“But why did someone steal the fountain-pen, then?” the lawyer asked.

“No-one did”, I said. “It was merely misdirection, to focus attention on the pen rather than the document. The companion simply removed it from the draw himself.”

It was rather interesting, watching a man of the law having to cope with justice for once.

“Just how bad is the lieutenant?” Mr. Watson asked quietly.

“He has left a slew of debts behind him”, I said, “and at least two – possibly as many as five – illegitimate children.”

It was obvious that our guest was finding things difficult just now. He was back to patting his hair again. At least there was no bacon in the vicinity.

“It would be difficult indeed to go round every firm of lawyers in Edinburgh”, he said at last. “They may even have gone further afield.”

“That is more than likely”, I said. “But perhaps you might have a word with the perpetrators. I doubt that they will continue any further along the path of crime – they have what they wanted – but one never knows.”

MDCCCLXXIX

Sadly one did know with Lieutenant Marks-Hall who contested the will and lost, then chanced his arm once too often the following year and was fatally shot clambering out of a woman's bedchamber by her unexpectedly returned husband. Mr. Watson did speak to the companion Mr. Tranter and to the MacDougalls, but they did not come to his attention any time thereafter so I presume that having secured their ‘prize’ they thereafter kept to the straight and narrow.

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_   
_1) Frederick Thesiger, 2nd Baron Chelmsford (1827-1905). He partly redeemed himself with a major victory at Ulundi later in the campaign, but he was sharply criticized in the official report and never served in the field again._   
_2) About a hundred and fifty British soldiers showed how to do it when they beat off around four thousand Zulu warriors._

MDCCCLXXIX


	7. Dead Men Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 1879. Four hundred and eighteen years before Sherlock and John would walk over it, some twenty-eight thousand men were killed in the bloodiest battle ever fought in an English field. As another anniversary draws near it seems that yet more dark deeds from that troubled time are being uncovered – or are they?

My brother Mark, the one decent member of my family who works for Her Majesty's Government (apart from his tendency to overshare certain details of his private life!), says that one of the reasons that I do so well as a consulting detective is that I have no imagination whatsoever. That may or may not be true, but as Watson and I stood there on this cold Yorkshire road in the swirling March fog I could not help but shiver. For this was Towton Field, scene of the bloodiest ever battle in the Wars of the Roses as the Cousins' Wars¹ are now more commonly called.

We were in the cold North in response to a request from one Mr. Michael Sanderson, an American gentleman who had decided to come to Yorkshire and settle in Saxton Hall², the home of his ancestors, one of whom had reputedly been involved in this terrible battle. He had married a cousin of one of Watson's more garrulous patients (as if that narrowed down the field to any extent!), which was how he had come to hear of me.

“Was it the worst battle ever?” I had asked my friend as we had approached the field. “You are the history expert.”

He had preened at that. I always made of point of playing up to his vanity when I could; I knew that he had a low opinion of his abilities when it came to our cases and as a friend I wished him to be happy. I was fortunate that I myself had no such insecurities, despite what certain annoying and otherwise almost borderline tolerable relatives said. Several of whose lovers would be getting an extra-large batch of 'supplies' soon if they kept up their annoyance!

“Quite likely”, he had said, distracting me from some Very Happy Thoughts. “There were fifty-two thousand on the Lancastrian side and forty-eight thousand on the Yorkist, although a quarter of each of those were what they now call logistics. Food, drink, squires, weapon-makers, plus of course the baggage-train and the men to defend it. After six years of on-off war the two sides were both making a huge effort for a final showdown. I read that they have dug up quite a few bodies, and so far they think the average age of the men there was about twenty. I am afraid that some of them were barely in their teens, if that.”

I had winced. That was just disgusting, making young boys fight.

“Was it the final showdown?” I had asked.

“Not really”, he had said. “It was the old story about winning the war but losing the peace; it brought a lull but there was more fighting just three years on. Matters were not finally resolved until Bosworth some twenty-four years later when the Tudors came to the throne. And even then there was still the odd revolt; there was another major battle two years later at Stoke.”

Which was why we were now in the middle of nowhere, having taken two trains to a desolate Sherburn-in-Elmet Station followed by a carriage ride out to Saxton, the village situated on the southern edge of the battlefield. Our client had recently purchased nearby Saxton Hall but we had diverted via the fatal field so that Watson could do his history thing. It was strange to imagine that over four centuries back, close on thirty thousand men had died here in a single day.

I may have had no imagination but the image of all those dying men made me shudder. Mankind had achieved a lot in its time but when it got things wrong, it got them really wrong.

MDCCCLXXIX

Mr. Sanderson had as I said married an Englishwoman which had been one reason for his return to England. The other had been his purchase of the Hall which he had done both for his interest in history and because one of his ancestors had once lived here. Watson explained that the Bledsoes had lost control of it under Henry Tudor and it had changed hands several times since, as well as being half-destroyed in the campaign that had led to the Battle of Marston Moor in 1644 (my friend was so useful to have around at times like this, and he always enjoyed it when I told him so). 

Our client was in his mid-forties and one of those large gentlemen who always look apologetic at taking up so much room, a little like Watson's lawyer brother but broad rather than tall, although not fat. I thought at first that he might have some sort of alcohol problem but Watson, who knew these things, later told me that he was taking medication for a condition that rendered him ruddy-skinned.

Mrs. Alice Sanderson on the other hand – oh dear! Physically much smaller and about a decade her husband's junior, I knew from the moment we met that she was going to be trouble, especially when I heard Watson shuffling his feet as she gave me a look that an unkind person might have described as a simper. With her husband standing right next to her!

“You see Mr. Holmes”, our host said, “although I am a descendant of old Tommy Bledsoe I am still 'the Yank' to people round here. I know that a lot of them are suspicious about my ancestry even though the Bledsoes held this place from the Conquest to after Bosworth, so for over four hundred years.”

“Has there been any particular trouble?” I asked.

“I allowed the local archaeological group into the grounds last month”, he said, “when they said that they only wanted to dig around Castle Hill Wood. That is right on the edge of my lands and out of sight of the house, so I did not think that there would be any problems. But they have been finding dead bodies along the road from there towards here, and now they wish to dig quite close to the house.”

I thought wryly that one dead body was usually sufficient for a case. Here we had getting on for thirty thousand of the things!

“You did not wish them to?” I asked, ignoring his wife who presumably had something in her eye again from the way in which she was looking at me. And in her throat from the way in which she kept sighing. 

Watson coughed for some reason. Odd; the local air must have been disagreeing with him.

“It sounds rum to me”, my client said. “I have gotten into the battle in a big way you see, and I know the fighting started by the wood but then pretty much stayed put until the final rout. Also I do not like the head of the society, a Mr. Marr.”

“What is wrong with him?” I asked.

“He is one of those snakes who is all pleasant to your face but then speaks ill of you behind your back”, our host said. “I cannot stand that sort of thing; back in Texas we say what we think to a man's face and damn the consequences! But because of my interest in history I suppose that I shall have to bite the bullet and let them dig where they want.”

I thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Your ancestor Mr. Bledsoe”, I said. “Which side of the contention was he on?”

“A Lancastrian like most round here”, he said. “That was something I got wrong before I read up on it; they might talk about Lancaster and York these days but most of Yorkshire was Lancastrian with only York and the East Riding for the White Rose. That was why there was a battle here; the Yorkist King Edward was on enemy territory here and had to fight his way on to York or retreat. The irony was that having got through all those decades of war, Tommy Bledsoe went and made an enemy of the wrong guy at court and King Henry pretty much took everything that he had, but then that was the way things were back then. At least he was well away before that blackguard Henry The Eighth came in!”

I thought for a moment. I could see one avenue of approach to this, but I would need time. Fortunately I expected to have at least some of that commodity.

“We shall do what we can to assist you, sir”, I said, not failing to note Watson's smile at my use of the 'we'. “I shall institute some lines of inquiry by telegraph to people I know in London, and we shall also mount some investigations here.”

“Thank you, sir”, he smiled.

MDCCCLXXIX

Watson and I walked into Saxton village the following day and I posted a letter to Mark (unlike Moira he had some interest in history). I would have sent a telegram but something about the woman in the post-office, and not just that she too seemed to be suffering from the same eye affliction as Mrs. Sanderson when she looked at me, told me that the contents of any telegram would be around the village in minutes. Likely the whole of the White Rose county before the day was out!

“You do not think the matter urgent?” my friend asked as we walked back past the Hall and headed to the battlefield.

“I do not expect anything to happen for a few days”, I said. “Then the archaeologists will make a most shocking discovery close by the Hall.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“How can you know that?” he demanded.

“Because.”

And there was the pout!

MDCCCLXXIX

It was now four days until the anniversary of the slaughter and Towton Field had not improved since our last visit. Well, maybe the fog was a little thinner.

“Was our host right about the slaughter not taking place in Saxton?” I asked.

“Yes”, Watson said. “Do you see that ridge in the distance?”

I stared into the slowly lifting fog. The road, empty even though it was actually one of the main roads between London, York and Edinburgh, breasted a long east to west ridge and a second parallel ridge was just observable about six to eight hundred yards away. There was a small river running by to the west and the dip on that side was almost a gully, while to the east and by the road it was barely noticeable.

“Tell me what happened in the battle”, I said. “It may be important to the case.”

It was likely not, but as I said it did my friend good to feel valued.

“The Lancastrians pitched camp in Tadcaster, the town a few miles to the north, and lined up on the far ridge”, he said. “It was an excellent position in almost every way; the steep bank down to the river on their right and in those days there was a marsh on their left surrounding the River Trent.”

 _“Almost_ every way?” I asked.

“The only danger was that the Yorkists might send some men across the river further upstream, then come up behind them”, he explained. “That would have caused complete confusion, especially as each side could only fit about ten thousand in their front lines so the rest had to wait their turn some way behind. That was what happened at the initial encounter at Ferrybridge to the south; the Lancastrian force sent to delay the Yorkist one got caught out and destroyed. So the Lancastrian commander here, the Duke of Somerset³, decided to destroy the bridge at Towton – the old one north-west of the village, the road that goes due north was built long after the battle. He also very cleverly placed an ambush in Castle Hill Wood just behind the hill there, where our host said the archaeologists had been digging.”

I looked to where he was pointing and could just see the tops of some trees behind a hill close to the small river. That was I had to admit an excellent place to have laid an ambush; the men there could not be seen from the battle-lines and would be charging downhill into a surprised and presumably rather busy enemy.

“A part of the Yorkist army had not yet arrived”, he went on, “but sometime between ten and eleven o' clock they had a sudden opportunity when the wind changed to a strong southerly. They loosed arrow fire into the enemy ranks and the Duke forgot that his men were firing _against_ the wind, so all their arrows fell short. The carnage on his own side – the driving snow meant that he could not even see the enemy – was such that he had to order an advance, yielding his strong position.”

I shuddered as I pictured the scene, ten thousand men advancing towards where we were now standing, knowing that likely most of them would soon be dead. And marshalled behind them many thousands more, waiting the call to step forward.

“The Yorkists were able to pick up many of the Lancastrian arrows and fire them back as well as their own”, Watson went on. “But when the two sides clashes and with the ambush sprung, the Lancastrians had the advantage of the numbers and pushed the Yorkists back on this side of the battlefield. King Edward himself had to come over to steady the line.”

“Would they have been pushed back to Saxton village and the Hall?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Too far”, he said, “although the ambush from the wood took them a way towards it. Another thing was that medieval commanders were superstitious; they always favoured a stronger right flank and a weaker left one, so most battles had some sort of counter-clockwise movement of the lines. The slaughter lasted for hours – it is said that at one point they had to agree a halt so they could remove the wall of dead bodies that had built up between them. No-one is quite sure what proved the turning-point but most likely it was some time in the afternoon when one of the Lancastrian commanders on their left fell, and with the late arriving troops the Yorkists were able to break through when a gap appeared between the enemy line and the marshland. The Lancastrian left collapsed and they fled, the other parts of their army trying to follow when they saw that all was lost.”

I looked again at the geography of the place. This empty field chilled me to the core.

“So they could only have fled north”, I said, frowning. _“Away_ from Saxton.”

“It was a massacre!” he shuddered. “Remember that the Duke had broken the bridge north of Towton earlier? That was their only real line of escape; many of those that tried to ford the river were drowned as it was in spring spate. Another horrible legend; it was said that so many tried to cross at the bridge that a crossing made of dead bodies built up and some Lancastrians escaped over that.”

“Yet you said that this massacre was not decisive?” I asked incredulously. 

He nodded sadly.

“King Edward was unwise afterwards”, he said, “forgiving some who should not have been forgiven – including Somerset, who almost immediately went and betrayed him! – and also angering his chief supporter Warwick the Kingmaker. Then there was his secret marriage to the Lancastrian widow Elizabeth Woodville, which angered even more of his supporters; I mentioned that to you before over the Eleanor Butler thing. That led to trouble on and off throughout the 1460s and his losing the throne from a few months in 1470 before regaining it the following year. There was a decade or so of peace before he died and we eventually had Richard The Third whose reign ended with Bosworth.”

 _So no real link to Saxton_ , I thought. I hoped that Mark would prove my suspicions correct.

MDCCCLXXIX

Sure enough I received a reply to my letter three days later, the day before the anniversary. I would have said how grateful I was to Mark for replying so quickly, but he had to go and boast that Tiny was coming round for a ‘long and hard weekend’. I made a mental note to stop at a telegraph-office on the way home and arrange some supplies for the behemoth that would make my brother’s weekend even longer and harder – and hopefully fatal!

It galled me that in truth I could not wish for such a thing. Tiny’s Sad Face upon my brother’s demise would have been beyond even my endurance!

MDCCCLXXIX

It was the following day, and as I had expected there had been a development over which Mr. Sanderson was not happy. The archaeologist Mr. Andrew Marr, a balding fellow in his fifties with a supercilious expression, was clearly enjoying his Grand Moment.

“There can be no doubt about it”, he said firmly. “Ten to twelve men from the remains we found, some only boys, and over half of them were very clearly done to death here in the Hall grounds. By _your_ ancestor, Mr. Sanderson!”

I thought wryly that even if this were true one could hardly blame a fellow for his family (yes, I _was_ thinking of my own!). I stepped forward, deciding to end this charade before it could be taken any further.

“I have some questions, Mr. Marr”, I said. “You are the historical expert, after all.”

The pompous fellow actually puffed himself up. That would not last.

“Indeed I am”, he said proudly.

“Well”, I said with a smile, “I do hope that you are going to pay Mr. Posner for his valuable assistance.”

Mr. Sanderson looked at me in surprise, but Mr. Marr had gone very white.

“What do you mean?” our host asked.

“At this rogue’s request Mr. Posner transported up to a dozen sets of remains from the archaeological society's headquarters yesterday, so that his fellow diggers could 'find' them today”, I said. “I have taken advice however, and can tell you that if a _proper_ archaeologist examines those remains, they will find that the earth associated with them cannot have come from the grounds here. The earth under the battle site contains a greater concentration of chalk for one thing.”

Watson looked at me, clearly impressed. As did Mrs. Sanderson, although apparently she was at that moment the victim of a rogue eyelash. Again.

“What are you saying?” Mr. Marr blustered.

“You, sir, planted those remains here for two reasons”, I said. “The lesser reason, perhaps surprisingly, is that you wished for fame in your own world which this discovery would have given you.”

“The lesser reason?”, Mr. Sanderson demanded, looking askance at the archaeologist. “What was his main one, for Heaven's sake?”

I smiled knowingly.

“My brother was able to confirm something for me down in London”, I said. “Mr. Sanderson, your ancestor Mr. Bledsoe was indeed a committed Lancastrian, but he very adroitly sent two of sons to fight one for each side so he could ‘be on the winning side’ whatever happened. He was thereby able to gain the upper hand in a legal dispute that had been going on for nearly a century with a rival family in the village, the Aumerles. Mr. Philip Aumerle was utterly ruined and his family remained poor thereafter.”

Mr. Sanderson just looked confused, although I noted that Mr. Marr was definitely eyeing up the door and an escape. Fortunately I had arranged with Watson for him to position himself across it, and there was no way that the little runt was getting past him.

“The Aumerle name died out”, I said, “but the bloodline did not. Nor did the sense of injustice that their descendants felt against the family who had got the better of them – a sense of injustice that led one of those descendants to try to defame Mr. Bledsoe by his ancestors having committed a war crime in having men killed after the battle was over. That person was _you_ , Mr. Marr!”

The archaeologist made a sudden bolt for the door anyway but simply bounced off the much more solid Watson. The villain was escorted to the chair to sit and wait until we had decided what to do about him.

MDCCCLXXIX

Since no real crime had been committed it was hard to prove anything against Mr. Marr, although his career as an archaeologist was finished (or as some horrible medical personage later remarked, “he was a dead man walking”; I was strongly tempted to leave him behind in the West Riding for that!). Mr. Sanderson was most grateful for our help and I was more than glad to get away from this terrible place with its tens of thousands of ghosts. Especially after I had yielded to Watson's request and we had visited the famous bridge beyond Towton where so many men had died for little or no end. It was a relief to get back to London for once, although I did not forget to ‘arrange’ things for my brother’s forthcoming weekend.

MDCCCLXXIX

I got a telegram the following Wednesday, marked simply ‘I hate you!’. Some relative of mine really needed to learn some manners, so I very generously arranged for Tiny to have a further set of 'supplies'.

A bumper bag this time!

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_  
_1) The conflict between rival branches of the Plantagenet dynasty between 1455 and 1487 had been known as The Cousins' Wars up till the nineteenth century when the great writer Sir Walter Scott coined the modern phrase The Wars Of The Roses. This comes from a fictitious scene in one of the Shakespearian 'history' plays, when rival barons plucked different coloured roses to denote their loyalty. In fact although the White Rose was a common symbol for Yorkists, the Red Rose was hardly ever used by the Lancastrians until a cadet branch of their family called the Tudors came to power and blended the two to create the famous Tudor Rose._  
_2) A fictional building, but unfortunately this is based on a true story as in 1996 building work at Towton Hall north of the battle site did uncover a mass grave, where there had very clearly been a massacre of at least twenty-four prisoners._  
_3) Henry, Duke of Somerset (1436-1464). His father Edmund had been killed at St. Albans, the first battle of the war. The family had a weak claim to the throne itself despite their lineage having been legally barred. Henry managed to flee and even regained his title when he was unwisely forgiven by King Edward The Fourth in 1463, but rebelled almost immediately and was beheaded after the Battle of Hexham (1464). The line died out when his younger brothers Edmund and John were both killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, but their first cousin once removed became King Henry The Seventh after defeating Edward's brother King Richard The Third at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485._

MDCCCLXXIX


	8. Hysteria!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1879. Another of those cases that Sherlock was Commanded to take by his fearsome (terrifying) mother, this time with horrific consequences. A friend of Lady Aelfrida Holmes has been diagnosed with hysteria but maybe she just likes.... you know. The loyal son duly investigates but so, so wishes that he had not – because some things can never be unseen!

In my long and illustrious career there have been many cases which, for one reason or another, have left me traumatized. This is hardly surprising given my line of work, and I often empathized with Watson when he said that at least half his problems had causes that were mental as much as physical. Indeed his skills in dealing with both would have served me well in this case, parts of which left me shaken to the core! Even for a place like London this was appalling, and I was left unable to look my friend in the face without thinking..... what were people coming to these days?

And to cap it all, I had siblings who made the whole damn thing even worse!

MDCCCLXXIX

I did not normally trouble myself with the English weather – it was a temperamental beast and something beyond any man's ken – but there was no doubt that this had been a most unusual year thus far. We had had the severest winter since the Napoleonic Wars, and now spring was late arriving which had not helped. Watson had told me that the number of cases relating to the unseasonable weather conditions was much higher even allowing for the usual winter surge in patients, and I know that because of his philanthropic nature he was rushed off his feet as he was treating more people who would never have afforded his services than usual, as well of course as treating all my brother Logan's 'boys'. All I could do to help was to arrange small treats such as a large bag of chocolate buttons or some chocolate pastries from the nearby bakery.

I did not usually allow the weather to affect me, of course, but that spring I had cause to be annoyed when Moira dropped by. Not because she smiled knowingly for some reason at the larger than usual bag of chocolate drops that I had bought for my friend, but for the news that she bought me.

“I am afraid that Randall has been up to his old tricks again”, she said with a sigh. “Concerning your 'friend'.”

I worried as to how she was able to enunciate those inverted commas. I worried rather more as to just what the lounge-lizard was planning. Especially if it involved Watson.

“What has the nuisance been up to this time?” I asked.

“He has been encouraging the Army to try to tap your friend to serve out in Afghanistan”, she said. “This Zulu mess would likely be settled by the time he could be got there, but there will always be problems around India. Normally your 'friend' would be thought too inexperienced to have gone – they prefer older men as they are tougher when dealing with the climate out there – but the pest is trying to persuade them to make an exception.”

I sighed. Randall! Well, he had asked for it and he would get it.

“Shall I?” she asked with a smile.

I nodded.

_“Release the Mother!”_

MDCCCLXXIX

It was early in May although still unseasonably cold and damp, when I received a telegram from Guilford Street. It could not be because of Mother recent finding out about Randall's machinations – she had been Cross (a Level Five) and back to hospital he had gone – so what did she want? Surely not another of her terrible stories?

It was not. But it was almost as bad.

“Problems?” Watson asked, as he forked across two of his four rashers of bacon.

I did not mean to – well, I probably did not mean to – but I gave him such a piteous look that he promptly forked across the other two rashers as well. Then he stared at me in alarm when I just looked at them.

“Not family again?” he hazarded (he really was reading me too well these days).

“Worse”, I sighed, reaching for the ketchup. “Mother wishes to see me about a friend of hers!”

“One of her Coven?” he asked with a slight smile.

“You mean her fellow writers”, I said, a tad frostily. “She does not say. But this cannot be good; I know that she has just finished her latest horror about an insane nurse who doses all the patients in her hospital with a sex drug. You remember, 'Casualty'.”

He scowled at me.

“I am still trying to forget you even mentioning it!” he grumbled. “I _work_ with nurses, remember?”

Oh, yes. He had a point, I suppose, but he was not the one risking his sanity here. Besides, if I had to suffer my mother's terrible stories then so did he. He had chosen to move in with me, for good or ill.

Very ill, in this case.

MDCCCLXXIX

It seemed at first that Dame Fortune was favouring me that day, for I detoured via Mark's house and was told by a smirking Tiny that my brother was not up (especially after two long and hard weekends recently, courtesy of a helpful family member not that far from here), but would most certainly be 'up' later. For a huge fellow he had a sense of humour almost as bad as Watson's, something that I would have certainly remarked on had he not been a huge fellow who could also pull a Sad Face that had my poor brother.... I had terrible relatives! However Mark had written me a message (in shaky and barely legible handwriting, the bastard!) which he had intended to send me in that he himself had narrowly avoided 'Casualty' the day before, so had arranged with Father to have Mother take it to read to Randall in hospital as a 'gift'. And the lounge-lizard would be unable to run away as well! Hah!

Unfortunately I was not to be spared my own dose of suffering. As usual I arrived to be greeted by another attempt by Mother to crush me – I again wondered if I had grown to be so tall simply because she had 'squeezed me out' while growing up – and once I could breathe again, I sat down.

“Thank you _so_ much for coming, Sherry-werry”, she twittered. “Such a shame that I did not send for you sooner; I am afraid your father said that Randall needed something to do while he was just sitting there being even more useless than normal, so I left him the story to edit. The boy said that he could hardly believe his luck!”

 _For once he spoke the truth_ , I thought, not at all cattily.

“But as I said, I needed to have _you_ here today, Sherry-werry”, she said. “I wanted to talk to you about sex.”

I baulked, and spluttered a mouthful of coffee across the room. Even for my mother that had come as a shock.

_”What?”_

“Manners, dear”, she said calmly. “Sex. You know, what goes on between men and women. Or between men and men at dear Logan's place; _such_ a source of inspiration. And that absolutely gorgeous Ajax of his, who always wears those oh so tight clothes. They are always sending me ideas for my stories that their dear boys keep getting out of their clients. By putting into their clients, I suppose.”

I made a mental note to do something very bad to that particular brother the next time that I saw him, regardless of the fact that he was bigger than me. I was sure that, with planning, I could get at him in one of those brief moments when Ajax was elsewhere. Logan really should know that one does _not_ feed a forest fire, especially when one knows damn well that only other people have to go anywhere near it!

“Then there is Mark and that dear, sweet Mr. Little”, she went on. “An even bigger hunk of manhood; I can see why he always wears those loose trousers and why my dear boy limps so when he comes round. But at least I always have a nice padded chair ready for him....”

“Mother!”

What hell was this that I had stumbled into? Even for my family home!

“And of course there is your father”, she said, seemingly determined to make me check myself into the nearest asylum despite my having evaded her terrible stories. “I know that your generation thinks that they invented sex, but we who have been around longer have had the time to become much more creative, especially when it comes to....”

“What was it you wanted to see me about, Mother?” I managed.

“I told you, Sherry-werry”, she said in what was definitely a tone of exasperation, as if I were somehow the one at fault here. “Sex. A friend of mine has been diagnosed as hysterical, and she thinks that either her husband or her sister is behind it so that they can get control of her money. Of course I said that _you_ would sort it all out for her.”

Mercifully thinking about that still worrisome subject made the horrors of the past few minutes fade somewhat. Victorian attitudes towards sex were that, well, it happened (obviously) but that it did not need to be talked about (certain parents take note!) and that anyone who did or who enjoyed it too much was therefore mentally unbalanced (certain brothers also take note!). Watson had told me that he thought the whole thing was bunkum, and that a quarter of the capital's female population was not hysterical in any way. He also also made a strange remark about a large proportion of the female population and even some gentlemen who leered at certain other gentlemen most improperly, which I had not understood at all. But then there had been bacon in the immediate vicinity at the time, so I had perhaps not been giving him my full attention.

“What is the name of this friend?” I asked.

“Mrs. Beatrice Handley”, she said. “Her husband is called Albert and her sister is Catherine. Both bad lots in my opinion and likely in league with her doctor, a fellow called Adler or some such. Beattie is a wonderful person; I am sure that she is as sane as I am!”

Because I quite enjoyed breathing I did not make the obvious comment there. Indeed I tried to even avoid thinking it until I was safely out of the house, with Mrs. Handley's address in my pocket. I supposed that my mother was right about one thing; there was no way that this friend of hers could be as bad as the hell that I had just gone through.

For such an intelligent man I could be incredibly stupid at times. Unfortunately this, to the cost of my peace of mind if not my sanity, was to be one of those times.

MDCCCLXXIX

I arranged for both Watson and our friend Peter Greenwood to examine Mrs. Handley and to make their own assessments of her. I fully expected then to both conclude that she was quite sane – well, as sane as anyone who wrote stories like those of my mother could be – but when I asked my friend about it, he hesitated for some reason.

“I am sure that the lady is not hysterical”, he said carefully, “and as I have said, I very much doubt that hysteria is real at the end of the day. But like some of my own patients I had the impression, and Peter agreed with me on this, that she was holding something back. Although I have no idea as to what.”

It exasperated me that in both our professions we encountered people like that, who would give us only half the facts and then complain if we reached erroneous conclusions. Even with a brilliant mind like mine, the supply of inadequate or erroneous information could only lead to incorrect conclusions. I often said to Watson that not even my sheer brilliance could always remedy such deficiencies, and he always nodded most fervently.

“My own research established that the husband may be rather too close to her sister”, I said, “and that they are trying to get her committed in order to get at her money. One odd thing; she seems to be surprisingly well-off for someone who runs a small ladies' wear shop in a quiet area of Chelsea.”

“That is a very rich area”, he said. “Maybe she does freelance work, like that terrible Ricoletti woman?”

“Maybe”, I said. “But having a wife declared insane does not end a marriage, as we both know. Unless the husband and the sister are content to live 'in sin', all that they would gain is control of her moneys and her shop. I noted however that they are both the moralizing sort, so that seems out of character.”

“As your mother might say, sex overrides all!” he grinned.

“Watson!”

I glared at him in horror. He was well on the way to becoming an ex-friend!

MDCCCLXXIX

I decided to approach Mrs. Handley and ask her what she thought might be afoot. It would undoubtedly go down as one of the worst decisions that I ever made in my long and glittering career!

Mrs. Handley’s shop, the oddly-named 'Lace Is More', was indeed in a quiet back-street of Chelsea at the end of a row of four other shops, and I was more than a little surprised to find that Timmy (Mr. Timothy Hartland), one of Logan's 'boys', worked there as a shop-assistant. He was a tall but slender fellow in his early twenties and looked oddly embarrassed to see me which I supposed was understandable; few molly-men were comfortable mixing their jobs, and he seemed far from the sort of person that I would have expected to find in such a place. The shop-owner on the other hand was a jolly lady of about thirty-five years of age and thanked me for having my doctor friends examine her.

“I was planning to divorce Albert anyway”, she said, “as I know that he and Cathy have been seeing each other. It was quite amusing you know, watching them preach morals at me and then contriving to maintain a relationship behind my back.”

“I suppose that money was also a motive”, I said. “You seem to be doing quite well.”

She smiled what I thought was a dangerous smile. I had a strange presentiment of danger which, at the time, I thought ridiculous. What sort of trouble could befall me here?

_Lord, was I about to find out!_

“Would you like to see how, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

I made what would be my second terrible decision of the day, and nodded. She whispered something to Timmy, who blushed for some reason before stepping out the back. We made polite conversation for a few minutes then she came round and flipped the sign on the door to closed before leading me out the back. There was a small reception room there and I could see Timmy's head sticking up above the screen. His head and his bare shoulders.

_What on earth was going on here?_

“Come out, Timmy!” Mrs. Handley said.

The bean-pole came round the screen and..... oh my Lord, no! No no no no no no no no _no!_ He was wearing panties! Black, sheer, lacy panties! Even worse, he was clearly comfortable in the damn things!

“Your brother Logan has certain clients who like this sort of thing”, Mrs. Handley said as if she was not currently traumatizing me even more than one of my mother's stories (some achievement!). “Not many of course, and as you can see one has to go for a larger size as well as allowing rather more room up front. Quite a lot of room for some of the dear boys, Timmy included.”

I was absolutely speechless!

“And the clients who like them, they also tend to want to take them home and wear them in private”, she said. “Or even out in public; there are few things to match the thrill of knowing and others not knowing. Which usually means that I have to make a second set.”

This could not be worse!

“Your brother Mark is particularly into them and went for a complete lingerie set. For both him and Mr. Little; I had to hand-make the latter because as you know he is large in just about every dimension!”

I took back that last thought. Ye Gods, what sort of world had I stumbled into?

“You can take them off and reopen the shop now, Timmy”, Mrs. Handley smiled.

“Can't I keep them on, miss?” the fellow asked earnestly. “They're really comfy.”

I grabbed the table for support.

MDCCCLXXIX

Worst of all was that I could not tell Watson what I had seen because..... I could not prevent my frazzled brain from conjuring up the image of him wearing.... no no no and a thousand times, no!

I sent Mark a telegram asking him if this was true, and the bastard wired me back to say that he had been wearing them the last time he talked to me. I thought longingly of the people I knew who would dispatch him into the next world in an instant... damnation, I could not. Much as the villain deserved it, that would mean that I would have to cope with Tiny's Sad Face. That was surely the only thing even worse than my mother's stories! Or my latest client's..... no no no no no!

My bastard of a brother must have also told Logan, for the next time I saw him he made several allusions to the case. To top it all he was wearing a kilt and had Ajax draped over him smirking away even more than usual...... Lord help me, I had terrible relatives!

MDCCCLXXIX


	9. Pandora's Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 1879. Top scientist and even more top thief Miss Elvira Gorringe has a case for Sherlock, as she worries over one of her fellow scientists. A potential agricultural treatment seems to have been a failure, but she suspects that there has been a cover-up. She is right – and the case will lead to a member of the detective's own family!

It was raining. Again.

The dreadful weather this year had continued, and as spring was giving way to summer it seemed only that showers were giving way to steady drizzle. And as an indirect consequence we had a rather amusing incident in Cramer Street.

Our new house was some distance from both Gregson's and LeStrade's then police-stations so one might have expected them to have called round less often. Alternatively one might have expected the sun to start rising in the west, which would have been more likely! They had both of them missed not a single baking-day, at least until the first day of summer just prior to our next case when Miss Hellingly had a fall and sprained her wrist. Since rather unusually for a landlady she actually liked baking (although she employed a cook like anyone in her position would have done, this meant that when Gregson called round that day there was no cake to be head.

The blond police-man's face fell when I told him the news of our landlady's accident, and he was just about to lay about whatever weak excuse he had concocted for visiting when he spotted it.

“You got some cakes from the bakery, sir?” he asked, surprised.

_(I should probably have explained this beforehand, but just as technology changed so much at this time, so did the English language. 'Cake' had a wider definition in Victorian times than it does today when the word 'pastries' is used for small, individual items while 'cake' is more generally reserved for a large item that can be cut into slices. Although as far as both our cake-loving police-men friends were concerned, any cake of any size was fair game!)_

“Yes, a couple of Eccles cakes”, I said. “I remembered that you said you might be coming round....”

“And the sky might be blue!” muttered someone unhelpfully from his corner.

I glared at him.

“So I got them for you”, I said carefully.

It was almost like a train-crash, watching the struggle on the fellow's face. He clearly knew that I had gotten one each for him and his deadly rival and equally clearly wanted both for himself, I wondered if he might try to pull a fast one and offer to take one for his rival only to 'accidentally drop' it on the way, but he sighed and accepted one of the bags.

As I said, my policeman friends had a core of human decency. _Even when it involved cake!_

MDCCCLXXIX

I may have mentioned it before, but I was reluctant to introduce to Watson to some members of my family on the grounds that the human frame is not built to withstand that much horror in one dose. Although after my recent visit to a certain shop in Chelsea I was in no good state myself, for that matter. Matters were not helped when Timmy from the shop sustained an injury working at my brother Logan's Debating Societies the day after The Cake Incident and was sent round to Cramer Street so that Watson could treat him. The teasing bastard smirked openly at me while I tried not to think..... honestly!

That the lady bringing our next case arrived to Cramer Street just minutes after Watson's departure for the surgery one morning did not surprise me in the least; I was sure that she had been monitoring the house and waiting for his departure. 

_(In fairness to my friend I should say here that only in the early part of my glittering and illustrious career were some of those I had cause to work with wary of my friend, and given the nature of their work that was hardly surprising. As the years passed many of them came to accept his presence, and even if I took the cautious approach and saw them without him, their first question would invariably to ask if he was all right. Quite why so many of them expected us to be joined at the hip was a mystery, frankly)._

Miss Elvira Gorringe took a seat and accepted a cup of tea.

“I am not sure whether this is really your line of business, sir”, she said, “ but something strange is going on in my own world of science and I am becoming concerned. It is to do with Pandora's Box.”

The name sounded vaguely mythical but such things were of no interest to me unless they impinged on one of my cases. It was a pity that Watson was not here as he would certainly have known all about it.

My visitor smiled.

“I am sure that the good doctor could be trusted”, she said, “but there is a particular reason why I did not wish for him to be involved in this matter, at least not at first. There may be an element of animal cruelty involved, which we both know is something that he feels very strongly about.”

That was true, I knew. My friend often expounded on the cruelty shown by some of his clients to their pets, observing that wealth of the lack thereof was no mark of how people treated dumb animals. Although when he mentioned that I had for some reason thought of Hilton and Randall.

My visitor shook her head and tutted at me. I reddened; I had forgotten how well she could read people. But it had been an open goal, damnation!

“What is this Pandora's Box?” I asked. “I heard Watson mention it one time and he was talking about something scientific, but I did not understand his reference.”

“Greek myth”, she explained. “The Titan Prometheus stole fire from the Gods and gave it to Mankind, so Jupiter decided that there should be something to counteract such a benefit. He gave Prometheus's brother Epimetheus the first ever woman, Pandora, as a punishment.”

She paused there. I, having a strong desire to continue in this world, very wisely said nothing. She smiled and continued.

“A while later the god Hermes left a box with them which she was very firmly told not to open.”

“And she opened it?” I guessed. 

My visitor nodded.

“It had contained all the pains and sufferings of the world, which have been with us ever since”, she said. “Possibly even including two elder brothers of yours?”

I blushed at her perceptiveness.

“In my field of science it is used to describe the dangers of always trying to discover new things”, she said. “You never know when something is going to be used for the ill of Mankind. I think that something either has been or might be about to be so used.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Last year they came up with a chemical formula which was aimed at making cows more likely go give birth to females rather than males”, she said. “That would have benefited farmers greatly, but they were unable to get the formula right. The one that they finally arrived at was so expensive that it was impractical, and had to be abandoned.”

I looked at her expectantly.

“But?” I pressed.

“There was a rather rare chemical involved in the process”, she said. “Not something that anyone has much use for as a rule; there was some demand for it while the tests were ongoing but now no-one needs it. Yet someone has been buying up quantities of the stuff. Not only that, they have been doing it very carefully; lots of small purchases under what I think are false names.”

“You think that someone is trying to restart those tests”, I said. “But why? And where does the animal cruelty come into this?”

She sighed.

“The final formula which failed had one chemical in it which is quite common”, she said. “I wondered if that was the one preventing overall success but I was sure that the men testing it had tried everything around it so I did not investigate into it. But it is also very close to a chemical that occurs naturally in cats. I wondered.....”

She trailed off and looked pointedly at me. I winced. I knew pretty much just what she had wondered and could see why she had avoided John being here. Rightly so.

MDCCCLXXIX

My sister Moira looked at me as if I had gone mad.

“Cats?” she said incredulously. “Feline species, with the sort of self-first attitude that would make a politician envious?”

I nodded.

“I need to know if there has been a rise in cat thefts in and around the capital”, I said. “A friend of mine thinks that someone may be taking them and extracting a chemical that could be used to create a scientific advance.”

“That would be Miss Gorringe”, she said (I was not the least bit surprised that she knew). “I would have thought that there was someone known to both of us who you might have approached first.”

I looked pointedly at her.

“I did not”, I said. “Because I very much fear that they might be behind it.”

“Given what we know about them, you may be right”, she said. “And if you are, how can it be stopped?”

I smiled knowingly.

“As Miss Gorringe said, Pandora's Box. One never quite knows when one will make a move with less than pleasant consequences!”

MDCCCLXXIX

I was not really surprised when Moira found that the trail did indeed lead to a certain scientist who lived in the Temple and who was renowned for having the same complete lack of scruples as my brother Randall. Which was hardly surprising as it was my sister Evelith, Guilford's twin. I often thought that although they had given Mother two physically identical if characteristically different twins like Logan and Mark, the Fates had 'sandwiched' them with Moira and Hilton on one side and Evelith and Guilford on the other. Chalk and cheese had nothing on either of these latter pairings.

Sadly Evelith had not changed from the last time we had met, combining Guilford's height, Hilton's unpleasantness and Randall's superciliousness. Sometimes Mankind (or at least Womankind) got it very wrong.

“I thought that you might be sticking your nose into my business, brother”, she said sharply. “I am doing nothing wrong.”

“You mean, apart from paying criminals to steal cats from poor areas around London so that you can conduct your experiments?” I asked dryly, enjoying the way in which she reddened at my omniscience. 

“One must not stand in the way of progress”, she said firmly. “Many people will benefit once my work is complete. And the police are rushed off their feet; they will hardly care about a few flea-ridden fur-balls going missing!”

She was likely right on that, much as I might have wished it otherwise. But that was not going to save her.

“I am a fair man”, I said, “and you are, much as I regret the fact, family. You have three days to stop this ramp, or I will stop it for you.”

“Oh yes?” she sneered. “And just how are you going to do that? If you try and tell Mother, I can just blind her with science.”

I smiled dangerously.

“Amazing as it likely is to both of us, there are worst things in this city than Mother. Goodbye.”

I left her to stew on that.

MDCCCLXXIX

“That”, Miss Gorringe said distastefully, “as the first time that I have ever stolen something that I did not wish to steal.”

“Maybe one might say that you _borrowed_ rather than stole it”, I suggested with a smile. “I am sure you took good care of it while it was in your possession.”

“I rather like living”, she said firmly, “so yes!”

I had of course had Evelith monitored and, as predictably as the sun rising in the East or our mother writing trauma-inducing stories, she had immediately after my departure gone round to her criminal contacts and instructed them to make a major effort to obtain more 'samples' for her work. Which they had found rather difficult as I had had Hopkins (who I knew was getting close to being able to apply for his next promotion) and several of his sergeants 'just happen' to be in the right place to catch the thieves. 

That would have merely annoyed my sister, but I had at the same time arranged with my client for her to take one Mr. Mephistopheles, who happened to be the favourite cat of my (other) criminal friend Mr. Kuznetsov. He was not exactly best pleased and came round to see me over the matter, and I was able to inform him that his pet had likely been taken by one of my sister's agents. He immediately sent some of his acquaintances round to inform Evelith that either she or her experiments would be finished by the end of their visit; he was not overly fussed as to which she chose. Perhaps unfortunately given certain later developments, she for once took the hint and I was able to arrange for the cat to be returned to a grateful master very soon after.

I had however made an even worse enemy in my elder sister. And one day she would try to get back at me – by going after John!

MDCCCLXXIX


	10. Blood Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 1879. A case of incest or impersonation, during which Sherlock (belatedly) notices something rather curious about his friend.

Our next adventure was a case involving the Army, so it was odd that it was preceded by a military event that evoked what might seem to have been a surprising reaction in England. It arose out of the Battle of Ulundi, which would turn out to be the last major battle in the Anglo-Zulu War that Mr. Disraeli's government had started to prevent the 'threat' of the Boer republics conquering Zululand and obtaining that much-desired sea-port. The battle was a victory for our Nation despite out troops being outnumbered three to one, and the Zulu capital was destroyed shortly afterwards.

What I found intriguing about this whole affair was that the government clearly expected some kudos for winning this war, but the press coverage was largely negative as people saw (correctly) that it had been started for no good reason. Not of course that the politicians learned any lessons from that; the first of the two Boer Wars started for similar bad reasons was begun the following year. Which was yet another conflict to cause me concern that my patriotic friend might indeed sign up and head off to serve our Nation. That would be..... annoying.

MDCCCLXXIX

_“'As I was going to St. Ives,_   
_I met a man with seven wives,_   
_Each wife had seven sacks,_   
_Each sack had seven cats,_   
_Each cat had seven kits:_   
_Kits, cats, sacks and wives,_   
_How many were there going to St. Ives?'”_

“Obviously just the one.”

My friend let out a squawk (a manly one, he claimed later) and jumped as I came up behind him. He turned and glared at me, but I smiled innocently at him.

“I would have thought that _you_ would claim there was insufficient information”, he said haughtily. “We are not told whether the man and his party were overtaken by the speaker on their way to the town or met coming away from it. You are the one always banging on about the importance of having all the facts.”

“I like having all the facts”, I said. “But I rather think that this case will not be as easily solved as a child's riddle.”

He was still annoyed although I knew that he was actually rather pleased to be with me for what might well prove to be an important case. That morning I had been summoned to wait on Mr. Frederick Stanley¹, later known as the sixteenth Earl of Derby but then the Secretary of State for War. Thanks to some adroit manoeuvring by his government the 'difficult' (I am being polite there) George, Duke of Cambridge, the Queen's cousin and, Watson had explained to me, a gentleman who could very well have been our monarch had things worked out differently², was still Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces in name, but his role had been re-worked (downgraded) so that it was subservient to that of the earl, who my friend had told me was a sound fellow. I had been asked to investigate 'a most delicate matter', specifically the Kilmartin twins.

Captain James Kilmartin and Captain John Kilmartin were then in their late forties and recently retired from the British Army. They had achieved fame for their part in the memorable Battle of Rorke's Drift six months earlier, where despite being out-numbered by around twenty-five to one they and their small band of men had somehow beaten off several thousand ravaging Zulu warriors. Both men had however been injured in the battle hence their retirement, and their return to England had even made the London press. The earl of course had been very pleased at the good publicity, which was why subsequent events had led him to call for my assistance.

The Kilmartins owned a small house which lay on the road between the small town of St. Ives and the nearby village of Fenstanton. John was unmarried while James had wed a Boer girl during his first posting in southern Africa over two decades earlier, and she had had two sons Jameson and Jacob, herself dying soon after the second birth. This second set of brothers, both unmarried, shared a small cottage less than half a mile from their father's house, and it was Mr. Jacob Kilmartin who came to meet us at a small restaurant in town. He was I knew a trainee lawyer and, although barely twenty years of age, had a calm competence about him which boded well for his career.

“His Lordship was less than communicative about the nature of the case that he wished us to investigate”, I said as we sat down. “I must tell you Mr. Kilmartin, that I am as a rule disinclined to take a case based on such little information. It is fortunate for you and the British government that Doctor Watson here is such an ardent patriot, and pressed me to accept it.”

Watson blushed at my words. I had been inclined to help as it was after all our Nation, but he had been very keen for me to get involved once I had explained matters to him and I always took the opportunity to make him feel valued. I was a good friend to him, really, and had most definitely deserved all his bacon rashers that morning. I had only had to look at him the one time, as well.

“I am most thankful that you have come”, Mr. Kilmartin said gravely. “The matter is a serious one and I do not think that it can be easily resolved. My family and I would be grateful if you could find a solution, because I do not see one myself.”

“When a trainee lawyer says that”, I observed, “it is indeed ominous. But kindly place all the facts before us and we shall see what we can do.”

MDCCCLXXIX

“The matter in question concerns a villain by the name of Mr. John Vincent Harden”, Mr. Kilmartin began once coffee had been served (a most excellent brand; it was actually syrupy when I stirred it and I did not know why Watson looked so horrified). “My father and uncle returned to the town in May having managed to secure a berth on one of the faster ships coming _via_ the Cape and for a few weeks all was well. Until early in June when this blackguard arrived.”

“Who is this Mr. Harden?” I asked. 

Mr. Kilmartin hesitated. I reminded myself that he was a lawyer and therefore inclined to whatever version of the truth suited him best, but he surely knew that he had to be as open with me as he expected his own clients to be with him. Like Watson, I could hardly remedy matters with only half the facts.

“He _claims_ to be my half-cousin”, our client said at last, “the result of an affair that Uncle John had with a girl before he reached his first posting many years back. He is of course lying.”

I looked at him sharply.

“How can you know that for a fact?” I asked. 

The young fellow snorted.

“My uncle may be a little withdrawn and anti-social but he would _never_ do something like that!” he said scornfully.

I wondered how he could be so sure. Most men had something in their past that was best brushed under the carpet, no matter how upright and moral they were.

An untimely memory of certain actions of my own one time in a certain London hotel made a certainly untimely intrusion into my thoughts, and was firmly pushed out again. My conscience really could learn to work on its timing!

“Why should this Mr. Harden lie?” I asked.

“My grandfather, the late Colonel Julius Kilmartin, left everything jointly to my father and uncle”, our host said. “He had two other sons and a daughter, but they were all selfish and self-serving, and to be frank they barely deserved the farthing that he left each of them; they did contest the will but lost. The colonel had invested very wisely in some profitable diamond mines in Central Africa, and he too inherited some money so it was a large inheritance even when split in two. Both my father and uncle have been invited to teach at Sandhurst when the new intake starts in September but they can hardly do that with this hanging over them.”

I nodded. There was clearly a lot more to this case than I had been told thus far, and I hoped that Moira (who I had wired before leaving London) might find something.

“So Mr. Harden is trying to obtain recognition as your cousin”, I said. “What proof does he have?”

“He has not yet shown us any”, Mr. Kilmartin said.. “The only problem is that his mother hails from Gibraltar, and I know that my uncle served there at around the time of Mr. Harden's birth. But that he would have done such a thing is out of the question!”

I pressed my fingers together and thought for a moment. 

“Who is your family doctor, sir?”

Both he and Watson looked surprised by the question. 

“Doctor Helston”, the lawyer said. “His surgery is in the High Street, a small place next to the Taverner's Inn. Is that important?”

“I rather think that it may be”, I said. “If you leave us your card we shall contact you when we have news.”

MDCCCLXXIX

I was perturbed to see that the claims of this Mr. Harden had made the front page of the local newspaper, which meant that this matter needed to be solved as a matter or urgency. Fortunately I had also had an initial message from Moira which was hopeful; I had been right in my surmises but she needed a little time to obtain (steal) the actual proof that I would need.

“Do you still wish to go over to Huntingdon?” I asked Watson as we walked down the high street. 

A fellow student from St. Bartholomew's whom he had known as a passing acquaintance had taken up a post in the nearby county town, and he had mentioned that time permitting he might call on him. This Edward Merridale had also functioned as his distance-learning contact one time when Peter Greenwood had been unwell for a couple of weeks.

“If you do not need me”, he said. 

“Only later”, I said. “The post-office has a railway-timetable so hopefully there is a train that will get you there and back by this evening.”

As it happened there was, so we separated and he went off to see his fellow medic. I departed to the local surgery where I was simpered at most alarmingly by the secretary Miss Broxbourne. Even worse, she clearly knew something but would only talk to me 'over dwinkies'.

Honestly, the things that I did for England!

MDCCCLXXIX

Sure enough the secretary did know something, although extracting it from her in between all those simpers was a three-coffee affair. Our meeting in a small restaurant in the High Street seemed interminable; I was sure that I caught Watson walking by at one point but for some reason he turned and went back the other way. Odd.

It was a cold and overcast day for summer and it was getting dark by the time I finally made it back to our hotel. My friend seemed oddly distracted, unless he had taken to reading his book upside-down, and I would have wondered why but I was exhausted after being on the receiving end of all that simpering and succumbed gratefully into the arms of Morpheus.

Next morning there was still something amiss with my friend. That was not like him; he had the occasional funk as did most men (myself excepted, of course), but I had never known one to last overnight before.

“What is wrong?” I yawned over breakfast. “You look like someone has told you about my secret career as an axe-murderer.”

He looked at me uncertainly, and I wondered if he was going to deny whatever was wrong with him. He looked like he was.....

“I saw you with that woman!” he blurted out.

I had not had my third coffee yet so it took me a little longer than usual to work out just what he meant by that.

“Yes, that was Miss Broxbourne, Doctor Helston's secretary”, I said. “In light of how I expected the case to develop, I felt that it would be useful to find out what role she played in recent developments.”

He looked at me in confusion. 

“What does the doctor's secretary have to do with anything?” he demanded.

That tone was unlike him, too. Honestly, he was acting almost as if he was.....

Belatedly I got it. And I could see that he had equally belatedly realized that his reaction was rather a giveaway. Had I been a bad friend I might well have teased him about that, but such a thing would have been beneath me.

“I shall tell you later”, I said, looking hopefully at the bacon on his plate. Four lovely rashers!

Fifteen seconds later they were on my plate. And my friend's face was rather too red given how cool the breakfast-room was. I suppose that I really should have maybe felt just possibly a little bit guilty at exploiting the situation, but.... bacon!

MDCCCLXXIX

At Mr. Kilmartin's office we were introduced to Mr. John Vincent Harden. I have to say that I disliked the fellow on sight; he had one of those faces that suggests that some parts of humanity had not descended that far from our distant shared ancestors with (other) vermin. He was about twenty-one years of age and had brown hair that was both slicked down and perfumed. Pretentiousness more than achieved, in his case! 

The villain squinted at us over the top of thick-framed spectacles.

“I trust that you gentlemen are not going to interfere in my rightful claims against my father's estate”, he sniffed.

Ye Gods even his voice was nasal! I sat down in the other visitors' chair while Watson stood.

“I understand that your claim is that Mr. John Kilmartin is your father”, I said carefully, “which would make you the result of a relationship some two decades back between him and your mother Miss Betty Martin, later Mrs. Cannock.”

“It is not a _claim;_ it is a fact!” Mr. Harden said testily.

“May I ask if your mother is aware of your pursuing this claim?” I asked.

“My mother has nothing to do with me any more”, the fellow said bitterly. “She disapproves of my decision but that is her right. All I demand is a fair settlement.”

I smiled dangerously.

“I am sure that we can reach a settlement that is quite fair”, I said.

I felt the change in Watson; he knew that I had something. I took a sheaf of papers from my pocket and placed them on the desk in front of Mr. Harden.

“What are these?” the fellow demanded, looking suspiciously them.

“Papers concerning the recent collapse of the Farnborough & Fleet Insurance Company”, I said airily. “I had them couriered up from London on the first train of the day.”

Mr. Harden had gone pale. He knew that the game was up.

“I do not know what you are talking about, sir”, he sniffed.

I shook my head at him.

“It really will not do, Mr. Harden”, I said reprovingly. “But since you persist in denial I will tell you and the others here what really brought you to the Fens. The collapse of the Farnborough & Fleet hit many investors, among whom was your stepfather Mr. Caleb Cannock. He had worked for that company, and he likely used his contacts there to discover that you had been involved in bringing about that collapse. He then used that as leverage to force you into this charade.”

“You lie!”

“Mr. Cannock knew of his wife's background and that she had had a friendship with one of the Kilmartins when they were both younger”, I went on. “Checking the dates he realized that you were of roughly the right age to falsely claim to be a result of that relationship, and that while such a claim might or might not be successfully pursued, the Kilmartins would probably pay good money to get you to go away. Indeed, considering the good publicity that their name has brought the army even the British government might decide to dip into their tax-payers' pockets to be rid of you. So you and your fellow parasite came up with this vile ramp to blackmail two heroic men who, unlike you, are a credit to our Nation. You are both villains of the first order!”

“Lies!” the villain hissed, looking increasingly nervous.

“However when you came to St. Ives you decided to check things out first and met with Miss Broxbourne, the local doctor's secretary”, I went on. “She in a moment of utter unprofessionalism let slip a certain fact that greatly strengthened your hand, one which made you realize the Kilmartins would pay even more to buy your silence. You have made your play but, sir, you have lost.”

“I shall go to the newspapers!” he threatened. “I shall ruin you all!”

I smiled at him and took an envelope out of my pocket, placing it before the rogue. He looked at it fearfully.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A train ticket to London and a ticket for the barque 'Elizabeth', due to leave St. Catherine's Dock at eight this evening”, I said. “You will return to your hotel, pack, take the train to King's Cross and be out of this country by nightfall. But Mr. Harden....”

I moved my chair closer to the villain, who cowered in fear. As any vermin would have done.

“Kindly understand that I have some quite interesting friends whose reach is _incredibly_ long”, I said coldly. “If one single word word of what you know appears in a single British newspaper any time in the future, there will be a knife in your back less than twenty-four hours later. The 'Elizabeth' stops off in San Salvador, Cape Town, Bombay, Singapore and Perth before reaching Sydney. No matter where you choose to restart your life, I or my agents will find you. _Then they will kill you.”_

Even Watson shuddered at my tone there. Mr. Harden whimpered and almost fell over his feet as he all but ran to the door, then had to dash back to grab his tickets. I smiled reassuringly at my friend before turning to Mr. Kilmartin.

“I think, sir”, I said calmly, “that you should go and inform your father that all is well. Then possibly celebrate the news with.... your brother.”

The young lawyer looked as shocked as I felt, and from the way I was looking at him he clearly understood just what I was not saying to him. He thanked me most profusely for my efforts, then left.

MDCCCLXXIX

We checked out of the hotel and took a train back to Cambridge where we changed to the main line to London. I wired Moira while we were waiting for the London train and learned that Mr. Harden was already there and, all too predictably, headed not for the docks but for the offices of one of the newspapers. 

Some people were so damn predictable.

“So what was the terrible secret that Mr. John Vincent Harden extracted from the garrulous Miss Broxbourne?” Watson asked.

I smiled at him.

“I am afraid that this is one case that will not see the light of day for many a year”, I said ruefully. “But it has certainly been interesting. Especially your unwonted display of jealousy over Miss Broxbourne.”

He blushed fiercely. 

“I am sure that Mr. James Kilmartin is mostly a good man”, I said, not smirking in any way, shape or form, “and ironically it was an act of kindness on his part that led to his family's recent troubles. Moira found for me that a colleague of his from his time in India, a Major Patrick Brockenhurst, had died and left behind a young son who was about a year younger than James Kilmartin's own son Jameson. The Brockenhursts were involved in a major scandal at the time – unfairly, but you know what the newspapers are like – and the colonel decided that the best way to bury the boy's past was by passing him off as his own son. Some fake documents made it seem as if he had two sons by his wife, not one; she actually died a few months before Jacob's birth but the date on her death certificate was subsequently altered.”

“There was much to be said for his actions, but the Fates proceeded to throw a rather large spanner in the works when the boys hit puberty and began to develop sexual feelings – _for each other!_ Naturally such a thing between brothers of the blood was unthinkable in polite society and Mr. James Kilmartin understandably did not approve of the relationship. He was as you might guess able to frustrate it by the simple expedient of not telling the boys about Jacob's past. However it is truly said that 'the truth will out', especially when one has a blabbermouth the likes of Miss Broxbourne in the vicinity. The boys found out the truth, but for their father's sake they agreed not to be open in their relationship.”

He thought about that for a moment, and could clearly see why the brothers had taken that decision. Small towns were instinctively conservative but for two brothers to share a house – well it would be only natural. No-one would have suspected anything between them. He also clearly saw what I had meant when I had told Jacob Kilmartin about celebrating with... his brother! 

_(I am sure that at this point some readers will be thinking about the Selkirk twins Balin and Balan, but they were clearly_ lower- _class so did not know any better! That, in the eyes of Victorian Society, was_ quite _different!)_

“So to continue”, I said. “All marches well; the 'brothers' grow into two fine young men while their father and uncle rightly ascend to become national heroes as a result of their brave actions. Unfortunately we then have the unpleasant Mr. Harden on the lookout for money to fund the lifestyle that he believes he deserves as of right. He comes to St. Ives hoping to have his silence bought, but in seeking to have his facts confirmed he learns the family secret from the atrocious Miss Broxbourne. She did not know the full details herself otherwise surely all England would have known, but she was aware that her employer knew something about the young men was 'off' and hinted as much to Mr. Harden, who then managed to obtain the records by some means. One can only hope that she follows him out of town; not only is she terribly indiscreet but her perfume is overpowering!”

He smiled at that. 

“It is sad in a way, though”, he said. “They love each other but must remain 'brothers' to stop tongues wagging.”

“Can you imagine how the British Army would react to such a scandal?” I asked. “The newspapers would have a field-day with the story and their lives here would become totally untenable, let alone those of their father and uncle. Plus many would claim that they really are brothers and that they are committing incest, which as we know is something that only the riff-raff ever do. No, life is far from perfect and this is in all the best solution.”

“That is so old-fashioned”, he said. “People should be allowed to do what they want provided it is with consenting adults.”

“Provided that it does not make certain other people jealous, of course!” I grinned.

And there was the pout!

MDCCCLXXIX

In the evening edition of the 'Times', there was a report of a man's body found floating in the Thames not far from the offices of the 'Times' newspaper. From a ticket in his pocket the fellow had apparently been headed for a ship out of England, but there was no identification on him so he had to be buried in an unmarked grave.

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_   
_1) Frederick Stanley (1841-1908). He served as Governor-General of Canada and several towns were named after him, but he is more famously remembered for initiating the Dominion Hockey Challenge Cup which today bears his name. As of 2021 his great-great-grandson Edward is the nineteenth Earl._   
_2) Duke George's father had been Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge (1774-1850), the seventh son of King George The Third. When Princess Charlotte of Wales, only child of the then-Prince Regent, had died in 1817 it had been belatedly realized that all of the king's sons had no legitimate offspring so several of them were bri... persuaded into marriages in an attempt to remedy that. George was born on 26th March 1819 and was in line to be our monarch from his generation for some two months before he was displaced by another George, the son of Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, Adolphus's elder brother. The latter was in turn displaced by the future Queen Victoria, daughter of an even older brother Edward, Duke of Kent. The new Duke of Cambridge continued to be obstructive to any efforts at reform and was eventually (1895) forced to retire, although the damage that he had done to the British Army was considerable._

MDCCCLXXIX


	11. Death Of A Repellent Philanthropist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 1879. A young gentleman makes a request which results in the two friends travelling to the far south-west, and John's discovery of a painful truth about Sherlock's past. They also meet a handsome gentleman who will later play an important part in both their lives and of whom John is absolutely definitely not the least bit jealous. So there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of suicide.

The strange weather that year continued through the summer, or at least what little there was of it. At least the rain had stopped but temperatures remained cool and it seemed as if the season had pretty much failed to materialize. I know that people will say that hindsight is a wonderful thing, but somehow things just felt _wrong_ that year, and in our next case they would be very wrong indeed. Fatally so for one person, much as they deserved it.

I was also worried about Watson who had contracted some sort of bug after treating a whole load of soldiers brought back to England after the early stages of the now-concluded Anglo-Zulu War. The soldiers had of course been returning from a hot environment along with the change of hemisphere and our own poor excuse for a season caught many of them off-guard; several doctors including Watson and our mutual friend Peter Greenwood were called on to treat the large number of cases. It was most unusual for my friend to catch anything – I supposed that his work built up an immunity to most things – but he was out of commission for a week and the Bloomsbury Surgery were decided slow to support him (especially given how hard he worked for them the whole time) until I had had Father have a few Words with the right people.

I also helped Watson with a small matter concerning his friend Doctor Merridale whom he had met recently up in Huntingdonshire. It says something about how self-effacing my friend was that he did not approach me for assistance until I spotted that something was amiss with him, whereon he admitted that his friend was having trouble with one prominent local patient who was suing his friend because she had had a bad reaction to some medication that he had provided. I was able to get Mark on the case and he that the patient had made the whole thing up as Doctor Merridale had recently purchased a house that she had wanted for herself; she was advised to stop or else her actions would be made public, but sadly for her she did not and soon after had to leave the town when her blackmail attempts were blown all over the local newspapers.

MDCCCLXXIX

Throughout my illustrious career I always sought to effect justice in the resolution of matters that I was called upon to investigate, even if such an approach sometimes skirted around the edges of the law (although not, as some medical personage in the vicinity once snarked, doing a full Lithuanian Rain-Dance several miles beyond those edges!). Unfortunately there were times when even my great abilities were unable to effect a just end for those involved. Whatever it took.

There was no sign of the troubles ahead when a young gentleman called at Cramer Street the day after my birthday in early September (Watson had very generously got me several bags of coffee beans which produced a most wondrous brew, even if the brand did for some reason tarnish Miss Hellingly's tea-spoons). Mr. Stuart Billesley was a tall young fellow of around twenty years of age and very slender of build. He had flaxen, almost white hair and seemed alarmingly assured of himself for one so young. He was also strikingly similar to a gentlemen I had never met but whose picture I had once seen, Mr. Harry Buckingham. The latter was the half-nephew and heir of Lord Theobald Hawke, who in turn was the son of Sheridan, Lord Hawke who had assisted my father that one time.

Oddly, that resemblance was to prove both coincidental and portentous.

“I have a rather curious matter to lay before you, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said, and I detected a Midlands accent in his voice, the Cotswolds perhaps. “I do not know if you would be prepared to take it on but I wish for someone to be found.”

“You have lost someone?” I asked.

“Not exactly”, he said, frowning. “You see, it is like this. My mother was Miss Alice Olney.”

I thought that I managed to avoid any reaction, but once again I felt Watson flinch across the room. He had spotted that something was amiss, although he did not yet know just what that name meant to me.

“Who is this lady?” my friend asked. 

I turned to him. From his slightly alarmed expression he clearly knew that something was wrong. Luckily he did not know just how wrong.

“She was involved in a society scandal at the start of the decade”, I said, thinking that even my own voice sounded slightly off. “It did not draw the attention that it would normally have merited as it happened just days after the death of the Prince Consort. She had been engaged to be married to young Lord Tobias Hawke, whose father helped my own out greatly one time, but on the day of their wedding she eloped with a lowly Welsh bank clerk called Mr. Milton Carew.”

_(Because there were some prominent ladies and gentlemen in late nineteenth-century society with that surname, which takes its name from the Pembrokeshire castle, I must state here that Mr. Milton Carew was in no way related to them. His surname is pronounced as it looks, not like theirs as 'Cary'. I am quite certain that they would have wanted nothing to do with this excrescence)._

“She was not found until over six months later”, our visitor continued, “when it was reported that she had died in childbirth and that Mr. Carew had fled to the New World. Her family had long disowned her; poor Lord Tobias blew his brains out when he was told of his former fiancée's passing. I was that child and I was raised by my maternal grand-father Mr. Stuart Olney. He died soon after, however, and care of me passed to my uncle Mr. Peter Billesley from whom I have received nothing but kindness and consideration, which is why I took his name when I reached eighteen. Which makes the matter at hand even more complicated.”

It was complicated all right. This fellow was the offspring of the bastard who had been responsible for the suicide of the gentleman I had admired as a boy, and who had left me his deer-stalker and pipe both of which I cherished. I suppose that I should have hated our client for that but with family like mine I have always held that a man cannot be held responsible for their family and must be judged on his own merits or demerits. For obvious reasons in my case!

“How so?” I asked.

“I reached eighteen just over a year ago”, Mr. Billesley said. “At that time I came into a substantial inheritance as of right. The monthly allowance that I now receive is more than adequate to allow me to live as a gentleman of the highest quality.”

I could see Watson frowning at that, clearly thinking that suddenly having lots of money would be a problem that he would quite like to have had himself! He caught my knowing look an blushed.

“Then what is the problem?” I asked patiently.

“Uncle Peter is one of the trustees of my inheritance”, the young man explained, “and his son my cousin Thomas, is another. One condition of it is that I am not to know whence the money comes. But I am curious.”

“I might advise you at this point to remember Pandora's Box”, I said, thinking as I said that of my recent case with my unpleasant sister Evelith. “She pried into some matter that she had been warned not to, and Mankind then had all eternity to regret it in. I dare say that I _could_ find out who is behind your current good fortune, but you must be aware that doing that may cause them to stop helping you?”

The young man looked anxious for some reason. I just _knew_ that had to be another problem. It was not my day!

“You see”, he said slowly, “I have done some thinking on the matter myself. It cannot be from my mother's family; they are well-off enough but not to supply this sort of money on a weekly basis, nor do I see why they would. The Hawkes are rich but they understandably will have nothing to do with me; Lord Theobald's lawyer Mr. Buckingham communicated that fact quite clearly to me when I came of age, although he was very gentlemanly in so doing. And there is something else, which you should know if you are going to try to help me.”

“Go on”, I said.

“Mr. George Brent, Tom's brother-in-law, is a friend of about my own age”, he said. “Of course he cannot help me directly but he did tell me something which I think may be of import. The Olney estates are as you may know in south Gloucestershire, which is where I was raised and still live. Yet for the past three years my uncle has been receiving letters always around the time of my birthday. The postmark was a place called Hugh Town in Cornwall.”

The Scilly Isles, some thirty miles off the west coast of Cornwall. The last piece of England seen by those heading to the New World. This was looking very bad.

“I do not know if I will be able to help you, sir”, I said. “But if you leave us your card, I promise that I will do what I can with the contacts that I have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

MDCCCLXXIX

Once again I really appreciated having Watson for a friend, as he did not press me about my uneasiness over this matter, and indeed took himself off for a walk once our client had gone. I was left with some very unpleasant thoughts that someone I had long thought gone down to keep Satan company might still be in this world after all.

For now.

MDCCCLXXIX

The following day we left early for Paddington to catch a train the three hundred miles or so to Penzance, where I knew there was a ferry-boat out to Hugh Town, the capital of the Scilly Isles. We obtained some refreshments at Bristol and were past Exeter before I finally spoke.

“This may be a dark case”, I said. “I very much doubt that I will be able to achieve much for poor Mr. Billesley, except perhaps to preserve his inheritance.”

“Why do you call him 'poor Mr. Billesley'?” he asked.

“We shall see if the worst is indeed true before I tell you that”, he said. “First I have to tell you about my connection to one of the most illustrious families among the English nobility, although I am sure that you of all people already know all about them from those society-pages that you hardly ever glance at.”

He scowled at my gentle teasing. I explained my first and last meeting with the doomed Lord Tobias Hawke, and what had happened subsequently.

“I did wonder about the deer-stalker”, he admitted. “It did not quite seem to fit in with the rest of your image. And when I found the one in your drawer, I thought that odd. That was his, was it not?”

I nodded.

“I wished to keep both in his memory and make them part of me”, I said, “but I was always fearful that I might lose one or the other somehow. I am not always the most ordered of men.....”

I stopped and glared at him. He seemed to be having difficulty with his face, damn the villain!

_“Ahem!”_

“Sorry”, he said, looking anything but. 

I glared at him but continued.

“Lord Tobias was that rare thing, a man equally beautiful inside and out”, I said. “I do not use the word lightly, my friend; he was of the Classic Greek looks and with a grace that one usually only sees frozen into cold stone in ancient statues. And he shone with righteousness in a way that I so rarely see, especially given the sometimes dark nature of our work. I know that I do not take as much care with my own appearance as I might, but that is partly because I have grown to look somewhat like him and every time I look in the mirror – it both gladdens and saddens me. I am growing into what he never had the chance to become, yet for the betterment of Mankind should have done.”

“I have in my time met too many men since whose pleasant exteriors concealed dark natures. That is the true difference between us; inside I can never be half the man that he had the potential to be and was close to becoming, although I try. He was kindness itself back then and talked to me as an adult. I remember hoping desperately that he would return one day, but the scandal that would finish him broke barely a month later.”

Watson sighed as he remembered.

“He took his own life”, he said. “A terrible thing, to be cuckolded like that.”

I nodded.

“As you probably know, Lord Sheridan had married twice”, I said. “Lord Tobias and his sisters were grown by the time all this happened; officially the title went back to Lord Sheridan as he had only resigned it when is elder son had reached eighteen. Also there was the not insignificant fact that the sole child of the second union, the current Lord Theobald, was only two years old at the time. Thankfully he had his brother-in-law Mr. Henry Buckingham, the husband of his half-sister Mary, who was a lawyer and who stepped in to more or less run things. He is a fearsome character from what I hear but utterly trustworthy, and certainly a lot better for the Hawke estate than Lord Sheridan was even though he is still nominally Lord Hawke. Lord Theobald will turn twenty-one some two years from now.”

“I always remember one thing that Moira said to me afterwards when I had to be told what had happened, namely that some families seem marked out for ill-fortune. That it should have been someone as bright and beautiful as Lord Tobias Hawke who lost his life – it seemed terribly wrong to a young boy.”

I took my pipe out of my pocket and looked at it fondly.

“When I reached twenty-one a friend of the family, Major Macareus Whitesmith, came to see me and brought me this and the deer-stalker”, I said. “He told me that Lord Tobias had remembered how I had admired them when he had visited and had wanted me to have them when I came of age. I am sure that many think the deer-stalker in particular strange for a consulting-detective, but it and the pipe are all that I have left of him; that he thought of someone as insignificant as me while his life was falling apart was so typical of the man. I always keep the originals safely locked away as a rule; I only ever use copies like this one when I am out and about.”

Watson sniffed again. I paused before continuing.

“It is a strange coincidence that I am being drawn back into that unhappy family's skein”, I said, “as our friend LeStrade only mentioned them a couple of weeks back when he came round.”

“On one of Miss Hellingly's baking-days”, he put in. 

I shook my head at him and he looked pointedly at me,

“On one of Miss Hellingly's baking-days”, I conceded (it really was annoying when he was right like that). “He knew of my connection to the family so thought to tell me that there was something afoot. Apparently young Lord Theobald was being 'difficult'.”

“How?” he asked.

“You may remember that after the American Civil War, relations between our two great nations were difficult for some considerable time”, I said. “Relations are however better now, which had enabled Lord Theobald – or at least Mr. Henry Buckingham – to find out that Mr. Milton Carew had _not_ been listed among those entering that country at the time he had apparently fled there. Mr. Buckingham has undertaken several cases for the so-called 'great and the good' so was able to call in certain favours and demand action from those in charge, although how he expected the Metropolitan Police Service to solve a case from over a decade ago....well. To cap it all Lord Sheridan is a friend of the Commissioner Sir Edmund Henderson, so naturally all the work fell on the likes of LeStrade and those at the coal-face.

_(It was odd that our conversation should have turned to our police friend, because I had just been instrumental in helping him out in a small personal matter. As had been mentioned during the Farintosh case LeStrade and his wife liked to holiday in the Lancashire resort of Blackpool as a rule, but this year they had gone instead to a friend of Valerie's in Sussex. This was also the year that the famous Blackpool Illuminations were to start – they were switched on for the first time two weeks after this case – and LeStrade had mentioned to Watson how upset his wife had been at the fact that she was to miss that great event. When he told me this I had covertly arranged (paid) for the family to have an extra week off 'due to an administrative error' and they were looking forward to seeing the show having already booked into their usual guest-house near the sea-front. Presumably it one with a bakery nearby!_

_I blamed my friend for making me have thoughts like that, by the way!)_

“You think that this Mr. Carew may have faked his flight abroad and then slipped over to the Scilly Isles?” Watson asked. “They are remote enough even in this day and age.”

I nodded.

“A brilliant man died back then”, I said, my face hardening. “If the man who drove him to that death somehow cheated the Grim Reaper, then he should be made to pay for it.”

Although I had a feeling that making Mr. Milton Carew (always assuming that we found him) pay for his crimes might be difficult indeed – but then I had more arrows in my quiver than most people when it came to effecting justice. If he was alive, this villain had killed a good man as surely as if he had walked up to him and stabbed him in the chest. He would be made to pay – by whatever means necessary.

MDCCCLXXIX

Even with the best offices of the Great Western and Cornwall Railway Companies it was still the best part of a day before we arrived in Penzance, and with it still being technically summer (even if no-one had told the weather, which if anything was even chillier down here than in London) we were grateful to find a small guest-house that could accommodate us. I told Watson that I expected us to have to spend at least one night on the islands, most likely in Hugh Town where the ferry docked. I knew that he was concerned for me; it was rare that I had such a personal involvement in a case and it was making me feel very low.

The following day we left early to catch the boat to the islands, which lie some thirty miles off the south-western tip of Cornwall. Watson told me that in times past they may have been connected to the rest of England when sea-levels were lower than they are today, and they turned out to be both surprisingly warm and quite beautiful. Mercifully the sea-crossing was fairly calm which was a relief as I knew that my friend did not take well to passing over King Neptune's kingdom, but then I had very fairly helped him out by taking all his bacon at breakfast that morning. And his coffee. I was considerate like that.

Hugh Town was I suppose quaint in a tourist-y way and we managed to find a hotel there before I set about my inquiries. Mercifully among my many languages I had studied the difficult and seemingly moribund Cornish tongue which clearly surprised Watson. and several of the locals who had initially been suspicious of me. By the late afternoon I had something.

“There is a religious community on the island of Annet”, I told my friend, “the island beyond St. Agnes. Some two decades ago someone arrived to the island and had a cottage built for them, or at least rebuilt from a ruin. I could not learn his name but the people I spoke to were quite sure that he was not from the West Country.”

“Hiding out here”, he said. “Is he the one behind the money being given to young Mr Billesley, do you think? That does not seem to be in his character from what you have told me about him.”

“It seems possible”, I frowned, having thought much the same. “But leopards do not change their spots so I doubt that a criminal can change his true nature. Tomorrow we shall take a boat out and see. I had better go and ask our land-lady if she will lay on some supper for us.”

“Actually I thought we might try a restaurant that I found in the town”, he said. “I am sure that you would like it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they serve three different types of bacon! _And_ free coffee!”

I shook my head at him but was unable to suppress a smile. He was a good friend.

MDCCCLXXIX

Annet was so small as to not merit its own ferry service, although the St. Agnes mail boat continued on to there as and when necessary before returning to Hugh Town. It naturally waited for the boat from the mainland so would not sail until after lunch. Luckily I was able to persuade a young fisherman called Mr. Lowen Trevelyan – he could surely not have been more than eighteen years of age if that – to take us over that morning and to call for us some hours later. He was a most affable gentlemen with unusual white-blond hair, and so thin that he looked as if a strong wind might blow him out into the wide Atlantic Ocean, so I did not know why Watson looked at him so suspiciously. The Cornishman was only being friendly.

Watson seemed to have picked up a cough as well. I was sure that he had not had that this morning. Odd.

The island of Annet was tiny indeed, consisting of two sections of about three hundred yards each in length joined by a narrow low-lying isthmus. There was a tiny harbour on the north-west corner of the island and a wooden pier onto which we were able to alight. Lowen bade us a cheerful farewell and went off to, presumably, fish. Watson spent some time glaring after him, but apparently he had something that he was trying to get out of his eye. Or so he said.

A barely discernible path led to first the cottage that we had been told about then past a small shepherd's hut by the isthmus before ending at the small monastery. We walked to the cottage and I knocked at the door. It was opened by an elderly man who had to have been in his late sixties at least. Definitely not Mr. Milton Carew who I knew had to be in his late thirties, unless he was a master of disguise.

“I am sorry to bother you”, I said politely, “but I am looking for a friend of mine, a Mr. Pasco Meredith. He writes to me often but his handwriting is so terrible that I only know that he lives at a cottage close by an abbey on one of the outlying islands.”

The fellow nodded.

“It's probably Tresco you'd be wanting, sir”, he said, his Cornish accent broad indeed. “That's the only other religious place out here.”

“This place seems wonderfully remote”, I observed. “Have you lived here long may I ask?”

“Mary and I, we've lived here years”, he said. “We were lucky I suppose; the chap who was having this place done up drowned when he went out too far one day, the place all but ready for him to move into. His brother inherited and wanted a quick sale as he lived up North somewhere.”

I thanked the fellow and apologised for disturbing him, then we walked on.

“So he died”, Watson said heavily. 

I shook my head; the fellow had demonstrated at least three of my sister Moira's indicators when it came to lying. I pointed ahead of us to where the bright white-washed buildings of the little abbey sparkled in the noonday sun.

“I think that that man was lying to us”, I said, “especially given the proximity of a place where men sometimes go to either lose or find themselves. An excellent hiding-place where no questions – or at least no difficult questions – tend to be asked. Let us test that theory.”

MDCCCLXXIX

We were admitted to the presence of the Father Abbot, a small almost round and bespectacled man in his sixties (I took one look at Watson and his blush told me that he was very clearly thinking 'Friar Tuck', which was so like him!). I could see why this along with places like Lindisfarne and Iona had been set up; the solitude was what some men craved even if I was sure that it would have driven me mad with boredom in next to no time. On the other hand, no Randall, Hilton, Guilford, Evelith..... and none of Mother's stories.

I mentally berated myself for my abject stupidity. This was my mother, damnation! Of course she would find a way to get them to me, even if it was by carrier-pigeon!

“I am here on a somewhat delicate matter, sir”, I began, inwardly shuddering at the thought of stories by air. “I am afraid that I must be direct. Many years ago a man came to your abbey and asked for admission as a brother. I know that it is not the way to question those who seek refuge in a holy place, but I must tell you that this man was implicit in two crimes.”

The abbot smiled benevolently. He would have made a good poker player, I thought.

“What crimes may they have been, sir?” he asked.

“The courting and abduction of another man's fiancée”, I said. “Much more seriously, the subsequent suicide of that man caused by the social disgrace incurred.”

“Neither of those are what a court would consider chargeable offences”, the abbot pointed out.

“I merely require to speak with the brother involved”, I said. “As you say he cannot be brought before a court to be charged in either instance, although as you and I both know he will like all of us one day stand before a higher court that operates on divine justice rather than English law, and I firmly believe that he will be found guilty at that time and pay the appropriate penalty. But there is someone else involved – an innocent young man – and more lives may well be damaged if I do not speak with the man that you have here.”

The abbot looked shrewdly at me. I hoped that he could sense just how determined I was in this matter.

“You may talk with Brother Kenver”, he said at last. “He is in the herbarium, the walled garden that was to the left as you came in.”

I stood and bowed.

“Thank you, Father.”

MDCCCLXXIX

“It reminds me a little of my school in London”, I said as we walked back to the herbarium. “That was run by a religious order; a very strict one.”

“I bet that you were top of your class”, Watson smiled.

“Yes.”

He spluttered at my confidence, until I smiled at him.

“Everything except art”, I said. “I cannot draw for toffee, as the saying goes. We are here.”

The herbarium was a small place but a well-ordered one. A middle-aged monk was resting on a bench outside a small shed, surveying his domain. I knew him at once.

“Brother Kenver?” I asked. 

The monk looked at us suspiciously. 

“Or should I say, _Mr. Milton Carew.”_

He was skilled at controlling his reactions, but then evil men very sadly often are. I felt a murderous rage boiling inside of me.

“Do I know you gentlemen?” the monk inquired. 

“I am here on behalf of one Mr. Stuart Billesley”, I said.

There. A definite reaction.

“Should I know that name?” the monk asked.

“Most fathers know their own sons”, I said mildly.

I could see the moment that he gave up the pretence. His shoulders sagged.

“How much do you know?” he asked.

“I know most of it”, I said coldly. “Showing as few morals as your target, you wooed and won Miss Alice Olney despite her being affianced to Lord Tobias Hawke. From the dates you clearly consummated your relationship some time before your flight which, I would conjecture, was advanced to her wedding-day by her discovery that she was pregnant. Since young Lord Tobias was very traditional in his beliefs the baby could not be his. Your family kept the secret until the birth which claimed not only Miss Olney's life, which in itself made the world a better place, but also and much more importantly that of poor Lord Tobias who could not stand the shame of being cuckolded.”

There was not even a shred of contrition from the villain. Then again, I did not have even a shred of surprise at that fact.

“You were in a most curious position”, I went on, thinking that I had maybe been unwise to have left my gun behind in our hotel. Then again, using it in such a holy place.... maybe not. “Circumstance had made you immensely rich – you inherited wealth from your late mother – but your family, although they had stood by you for the child's sake, to their credit wanted nothing to do with a man with two deaths on his hands. I know that you came here and, suspecting that one day you might be tracked, arranged for the cottage to be rebuilt before disappearing into the abbey. You sold the cottage to a couple for a reduced price and in return they promised to spin a story of your demise should anyone ask, which they did to us earlier today. I have only one question for you. Why a monk?”

The villain smiled sourly. 

“Toby was an ass but he was a good man”, he said. “When he ended himself like that – I nearly lost it. Alice's family took Stuart from me and I was glad – glad because they could raise him right. I had nothing, which was what I deserved. Yes the money – but every time I closed my eyes I could see that boy lying there, bleeding to death because of me. He has haunted me almost every day since and will do so until my dying day.”

 _Which cannot come soon enough_ , I thought. 

“The monastery was Alice's brother's idea”, he said. “He arranged for a family he knew to move into the refurbished cottage and as you said to tell anyone who asked that they got it when the man having it fitted out for him died in an accident. The family would use my money for Stuart and some other charities that I knew Toby had supported, and I would quit the world. Why have you come after me?”

“Because your son wishes to find out the source of his wealth”, I said. 

“You have to stop him!” the man exclaimed.

I stared at him incredulously.

“You seem to have forgotten, _sir,_ , that you are responsible for the deaths of two people”, I said coldly, “one of whom was a damn fine human being without who the world is an infinitely poorer place. Despite your subsequent efforts to make the best of matters I do not _have_ to do anything. However, Mr. Billesley is my client and his interests are paramount in this. You yourself have no interest in his fund?”

The villain shook his head.

“It is run by his family”, he said. “I signed over all control to them. The only say I got was that Alice's sisters had to be seen right – they had no money of their own and she had fretted about them – but they saw to that all right.”

He looked hard at me. He clearly understood that my having found him, this would not end with our departure. I knew that Watson had his hand on the gun in his pocket and for all that this villain could not be armed, I was glad. The sooner this sorry mess was resolved, the better.

“I have certain contacts who will I am sure be able to produce some convincing documents to the effect that you did indeed 'drown' off the coast of this island”, I said. “Watson, it is time for us to leave.”

I strode angrily away and my friend followed me.

MDCCCLXXIX

Lowen picked us up about an hour later and was clearly smart enough to sense that we (or at least I) did not wish to talk. Watson's cough was back again, I noted, and for some reason he glared at the fellow when we alighted from his boat back in Hugh Town. We had to spend another night in a hotel in Penzance once we regained the mainland, then it was back to London for us. I again realized just how much I valued Watson when, one our finally coming back into Cramer Street, he said that I should tell him when I needed time alone.

He understood. And I sent round to Mark immediately to make sure that I had tabs on a certain person on a certain island.

MDCCCLXXIX

I was fortunate as the gentlemen who I wished to see was in London rather than Wiltshire. Mr. Henry Buckingham, Lord Sheridan's son-in-law and as I said a lawyer, came round to see me that Sunday; Watson very generously took a long walk and said that he would be gone all morning.

I had never met Mr. Buckingham before but I knew enough of his reported character not to be surprised when he turned out to have something of the late Lord Tobias's righteousness in his character, which perhaps made his choice of career surprising. As well as being Lord Sheridan's son-in-law he was also a distant cousin, the nobleman's grand-father Lord Harry being this gentleman's great-grand-father. He was blond, a little over forty years of age, and from his wary expression clearly knew or at least had guessed something as to why I had asked to meet with him.

He listened to what I had to tell him with a darkening face.

“How do we get rid of him?” he said bluntly when I was finished.

“I hardly think that either of us travelling to those remote islands and shooting him is going to end well”, I said. “However I have made arrangements that we can be informed when – I think we both know it is when – he makes his bid to escape justice.”

I gestured to a card that just happened to have been left on the table next to him.

“Some of my visitors are a little untidy, I am afraid”, I sighed plaintively. “Although as the lady whose card that is happens to be one of London's foremost assassins, it is not something that I can really challenge her over. Ah well.”

He nodded, picked up the card and left.

MDCCCLXXIX

Three days later Mr. Milton Carew was shot as he awaited a train at Penzance Station that would have taken him to Plymouth and a boat to the New World. Instead of which he was now in the next one, where he would be some long overdue competition for Satan. I sent out for a box of the special chocolates that Mrs. Kyndley so enjoyed and made a note in my records that with Mr. Billingsley having inherited all his unmissed father's wealth fully now, my Hawke problems were over.

They were not. Not by a long chalk.

MDCCCLXXIX


	12. The Trials Of Tom Tapper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 1879. Something lighter after the dark dealings down in Cornwall. The Selkirk twins ask Sherlock to investigate why one of their fellow workers (and fellow Debating Society Members!) has acted out of character. In a tangle of tappers the answer turns out to be a surprising one.

My brother Logan may have the odd fault – well, he has loads although unfortunately he also has Ajax who is very big and always looks at me as if he is considering just how few minutes it might take to bury my body – but one of his better qualities is the care he shows to the 'boys' in his charge. That he enjoys such a good reputation in what is basically a sordid business says a lot, since his customers know that he can be trusted while his 'boys' know that he cannot be crossed, or at least not unless they desire a very painful encounter in a dark alley soon after. Among other things.

Logan took particular care of LeStrade's nephews the Selkirk twins, Balin and Balan, who every time I saw them seemed to be even more intensely in love with each other than the time before. I of course would never forget that dreadful first encounter with them in their uncle Sir Mordred LeStrade's house when they were just two bags of bones, but that was always countered by how well they looked now. My oversharing brother had on several occasions made a point of saying how popular they were 'what with the twin thing', which always leads to my reminding him of just how many murderers and assassins I know (as had been demonstrated quite recently). 

Watson of course treated all the 'boys' for free as and when they need his help, so I was not surprised when the twins came round to Cramer Street one chilly autumn day; the wash-out of a summer had given way to an unusually cold and dry autumn. Although their visit was not for the usual medical reasons that we might have expected.

“Mr. Logan said we might ask for your help, sir”, Balin said (I had learned to tell the two apart despite the fact that they were not only identical but dressed identically; Balin had three freckles on his nose rather than his brother's two, and hazel as against his twin's brown eyes). “It's something from work.”

The young men worked as porters on the Great Eastern Railway, which ranked about middling among the highly variable companies of the day. They dominated Essex and East Anglia although I supposed that they made most of their money from the suburban services out of Liverpool Street to the ever growing eastern reaches of the metropolis. I had helped secure them those positions after I had rescued them from their evil Uncle Mordred and I knew that they greatly enjoyed their jobs; I could have gotten them something better but it was more important that they be happy, especially considering their lives thus far.

“What is it?” I asked, not failing to note as to how they were almost on top of each other on the couch. Watson was openly smiling as he leaned over his notes, which was annoying but, in this case, justified.

“They sacked Tom Tapper over that accident outside Shenfield”, Balan said. “He's a good worker but they said it was his fault. We don't think it was.”

I looked pointedly at the pair of them. It was good that they could openly express affection for each other in our presence, but they really were terrible liars. Or at least they were bad when covering something up.

“Tell us about this accident”, I said. 

“A tyre came off a coach on the Cromer Express as it was going through Shenfield”, Balin said, reddening under my look. “Lucky it was caused by the train braking as it slowed for the station, but it caused a whole lot of damage and injured a crew on a train in the siding two lines away. Not seriously, though.”

I looked at them both in confusion, wondering just why an express would not be 'expressing', then looked hopefully across at Watson. He was much better when it came to things I usually had little time for.

“There was a bad accident at Wigan up in Lancashire back in 'Seventy-Three”, he said. “The Railway Inspectorate could not work out what had caused it but they said that running expresses at high-speed through certain stations was dangerous. That was likely why a fast train was slowing.”

“And the tyre?” I asked. “I did not know that railway vehicles had tyres.”

“A thin sheet of metal hammered on when the wheel is made, to prevent them from wearing out”, Watson said. “Boys, is this colleague of yours a wheel-tapper?”

They both nodded.

“Yes, doctor”, they said in an almost creepy unison.

“What is a wheel-tapper?” I asked.

“The fellow who goes along a train tapping the wheel”, Watson said, with an innocent smile.

I glared at him for that, and our visitors both chuckled.

“You know when you tap a glass and it makes a sound, sir?” Balan said. “That's how a tapper works. He takes a hammer and bangs his way along a train. If there's a tiny crack in the wheel or the tyre, then he'll hear a different noise and know there's something wrong.”

I saw it now.

“And this colleague of yours failed to spot such a crack”, I said. “What is his name?”

For some reason that simple question seemed to flummox our visitors. I stared at them in surprise.

“We call him Tom Tapper, sir”, Balin said at last. “You see, he was a foundling so he didn't have a surname. When he started on the railways he became Tom Tapper. But we know him and he's not the sort to make a mistake like that.”

I looked hard at them again. Considering what they did as a second job, they blushed rather too easily.

“We saw that he was one of us”, Balan said awkwardly, “and that he was struggling to get by. His place that raised him, they take a big part of his wages to pay for what they did, see. He had some terrible rooms not far from the big station so, uh, we persuaded Mr. Logan to let him move into one of his spare rooms.”

“He means we got Mr. Ajax to persuade Mr. Logan!” Balin grinned. “All weekend long!”

I sighed. Whatever other advances the medical profession achieved, I had come to severely doubt that they would ever cure Debating Society 'Humour'. I was also rather surprised at something else; Logan hardly ever let anyone live at one of his establishments.

“Why did this gentleman not come to ask for our help himself?” I asked.

“He has a client all week”, Balin explained. “No less than the Duke of Carlton; his wife is out of town until next Sunday so he's got Tom twenty-four hours a day. Or as long as he can last; the fellow's hung like a bloody Clydesdale!”

“Tom's a good fellow”, Balan said, looking reprovingly at his twin for his frankness, “and he needs that job. We all think he was set up but you know how it is, sirs. None of us dare make a fuss.”

“Did this friend of yours have anyone in the company who did not like him?” I asked.

“Mr. Weston, sir”, Balin said at once. “We're not sure but we think he found out about him; Mr. Logan said his brother came to the Aldgate house one time and not for the usual; he claimed he'd been given a wrong address.”

“I do not like it when friends, or for that matter friends of friends, are treated like that”, I said. “We will take this case.”

MDCCCLXXIX

I was perhaps, maybe, arguably a tad cruel when I casually mentioned a certain subject to my friend once the twins had gone.

“I do not suppose you know anything about this Duke of Carlton fellow?” I said off-handedly. “It is not a title that I recognize.”

“That would be Eustace Audley”, he said at once. “Poor fellow; his late father forced him into a marriage with an American Miss Gail Devers. She was rich from Texas oil-wells if I remember and very ambitious; it was she who insisted on pushing his claim to the dukedom with the last duke having died out some time last century. I am sure he would have been happier living in a small house somewhere and I am certain that he would have been happier being single especially as she is known in society as Roaring Gail, because she is always bellowing.....”

Too late he saw the trap that I had set, and pouted most charmingly.

“It really is amazing how you know all that”, I said, “especially when one considers how you hardly ever glance at the society-pages in the newspapers. Or so you tell me.”

The pout became even deeper, and I could see him mulishly resolving that he would not be handing me over any bacon at breakfast tomorrow. Oh yes he would be.

MDCCCLXXIX

He did.

MDCCCLXXIX

The Shenfield incident had been a fairly minor one so the Railway Inspectorate had not looked into it, but I was able to obtain a copy of the company's own report into the matter. It was surprisingly frank; there was almost open doubt that Mr. Tapper had been remiss in his job, but the facts were apparently against him. However as I knew from long and sometimes bitter experience, there were facts and then there were facts.

A few days later and I had further information from the company records which confirmed Mr. Tapper's innocence in the matter. I sighed heavily; some people were frankly evil in attempting to destroy others just because they held views that were, to them, 'unacceptable'. The trouble with that, particularly for the likes of Mr. Dominick Weston, was that I found _his_ actions equally 'unacceptable' – and now I could make him pay for them.

MDCCCLXXIX

In the midst of this case I was distracted by an unwelcome visit from my brother Randall (although almost any visit from that pest would have been unwelcome unless it had been to announce that he was immediately moving to Tibet!). He apparently wanted my help in a mess that he had created in his own department by assuring his superiors that reports of an alliance between Germany and Austria-Hungary were rubbish and could easily be dismissed because the feedback that he had been getting from British agents on the Continent said so. 

Germany and Austria-Hungary had just signed the Dual Alliance. Oops!

The nuisance left after what seemed like an eternity – the clock on the wall was surely mistaken when it suggested that it had only been twenty-five minutes – and Watson turned to me.

“Just what did he expect of you?” he asked.

“He wants me to ask Moira to look into why all those reports he got were so wrong”, I said. “He is too scared of her to approach her himself.”

“I suppose that it was a judgement call”, he mused. “Fear of the Russian bear out-weighing fear of German nationalism which might break up their own country.”

I smiled knowingly. He looked across at me.

“You did not....”

“Reports can be intercepted and changed”, I said. “And pestilential lounge-lizards who behave badly can expect there to be consequences for their bad behaviour, even if they do not immediately see that they have brought their own troubles upon themselves.”

He smiled at that.

MDCCCLXXIX

On a totally unrelated matter, we purchased large bags of barley-sugars and chocolate drops from the sweet-shop around the corner in the High Street. Because one simply _had_ to mark the 1346 Battle of Neville's Cross¹!

MDCCCLXXIX

Watson and I would as things turned out have later dealings with the Great Eastern Railway Company in which the management of said company were to prove less than satisfactory. However I had had Mr. Weston's superior Mr. William Edwards checked out and, apart from a rather unsavoury incident from his school-days involving a vinegar-bottle and the school matron (my sister Moira really knew way too much!), he was sound enough. He would, I hoped, do the right thing.

Moira had also given me the matron's address, just in case!

Mr. Edwards was a florid-faced fellow who I might have thought to have had alcohol problems had not Moira's file told me that he was teetotal. He was about forty-five years of age and, like so many in his position, understandably wary when I was shown in to see him.

“I did not know that you investigated such minor matters as this, Mr. Holmes”, he said.

“I do not take clients based on the size of their wallets or, for that matter, their sense of self-entitlement”, I said. “This matter affected some friends of mine so I looked into it for them. I do hope that it does not come to the attention of the 'Times', as they will surely make a whole lot of how your Company was duped by one of its employees.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean, sir?” he asked.

“The coach from which the tire burst with such calamitous results was number 8649”, I said. “It was one of a rake of five coaches to be examined for wheel defects by Mr. Tapper the day before the accident.”

He stared at me in alarm. He knew that that meant I had to have seen the Company's own report which had not been made public, as well as the official government one. I nodded slowly.

“The thing is”, I said, “when I looked at the records as to which coaches Mr. Tapper had examined, I found something most odd. Someone had altered the second number in one of the coaches that Mr. Tapper had certified safe, so that the five had become a six. Only Mr. Tapper's superior, Mr. Weston, had access to that document. There was also the rather curious fact that, for no apparent reason, Mr. Weston recorded that Mr. Tapper had examined coach 8649 at a time when, according to your own records, that same coach was in use on the line between Norwich and Cromer. I know that they say the reach of the law is long, sir, but I doubt that even the estimable Mr. Tapper can stretch quite that far to do his job.”

He had gone pale, and was clearly wondering how I knew so much and also just what I wanted to go away. 

I smiled easily.

“I am sure that the Company will be reviewing this report”, I said. “Today, in fact. It will also be reviewing the continued employment of Mr. Weston. Also today. And I have a feeling that these reviews will not take long; indeed I fully expect them to be completed by, say..... the end of today.”

I looked pointedly at him and he nodded. Fervently!

MDCCCLXXIX

It had been my intention that Mr. Tapper would be re-employed by the Company once they had thought things over, and certainly within the next twenty-four hours if they knew what was good for them. However on arriving back to Cramer Street we discovered that there was a slight problem with that.

Make that a very large problem. To wit Mrs. Gail Audley, better known as the Duchess of Carlton. I would not have called her a large woman but had she fallen in the sea there would likely have been a tidal wave somewhere soon after. She had done well to squeeze her bulk through our doorway. And worse, she simpered at me!

“I know from my friends that you are the man to help me!” she stormed (ye Gods, she was almost as loud as my sister Hope!). “I arrived home unexpectedly and there was a man in the house!”

I looked at her in mock confusion, and wished that I could scowl at Watson for that gesture about ear-muffs. Much as I had had similar thoughts myself.

“Your husband, madam?” I asked.

“No, some fellow he said he was thinking to employ as his valet”, she stormed. “He has never had one of those before. He is up to something, I know!”

 _Likely looking for his own ear-muffs_ , I thought not at all uncharitably. 

“Did this potential servant have a name?” I asked politely.

She looked confused at that. Clearly servants did not come with names in her world.

“Tapper, I think”, she said. “Yes, that was what Eustace said. I did not stay to hear any more but came straight round here.”

I looked at her in concern.

“Did you _see_ this Mr. Tapper?” I asked.

Again the question seemed to confuse her.

“He is only a servant, or a potential one”, she said dismissively. “But yes; a thin fellow. Dark curly hair and needed a wash. Billie, my maid, told me on the way here his name was Thomas, although quite why she was interested in such a piffling piece of.....”

She trailed off, having belatedly registered my look of horror.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“You.... you did not _upset_ this Mr. Tapper?” I gasped in mock horror. “Surely you did not?”

“I told him to get out of my house”, she said, although her volume had dropped as she had registered my apparent unease. “But my husband said no for some reason.”

I looked across at Watson who, most obligingly, shook his head at me. I sighed heavily.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” our visitor demanded.

“I do trust that you can keep a confidence?” I said cautiously. I trusted rather more that what I was about to tell her would be around her society friends by night-fall, but I just about managed not to say that. And Watson could have managed not to cough just then.

“Of course”, she said. “What is it?”

“I cannot, I am afraid, be too specific”, I said. “Your husband was, very nobly on his part, employing someone with what might be termed a rather interesting heritage.”

She looked at me in bewilderment.

“Without going into detail”, I said, “let us just say that although Mr. Tapper is indeed a foundling, he had a certain connection to a family in this city. A rather prominent family. Whose female head is a widow of some years and makes frequent trips to the North of Scotland.”

She stared at me in shock.

“You are saying that he.....”

“Madam, I am saying nothing”, I said firmly. “I have said nothing. We have not had this conversation. You have not even come to this house. I hope that that is most clearly understood?”

She got it, and nodded. I wondered which of her friends was going to receive the news of her house's incredible new servant first.

MDCCCLXXIX

Mr. Thomas Tapper was duly employed as the duke's valet, and settled into his new post very well. By some strange alignment of the fates that particular nobleman soon after acquired a whole set of business interests based in distant corners of the British Isles and overseas, which forced him to spend increasingly large amounts of time away from his wife. But I am sure that he coped. Somehow.

He also sent me a most generous cheque on which the writing was, I thought, decidedly uneven. I wondered why.

No I did not. I had the oversharing Logan as a brother, and I knew damn well why!

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_   
_1) October 17th, 1346. A disastrous reign was nearly (but in the eyes of many Scots, not nearly enough) terminated when King David The Second invaded England in support of his French allies, only for his army to be crushed outside Durham and he himself captured. He would remain a prisoner for the next eleven years while the Scots worked flat out to not have him back._

MDCCCLXXIX


	13. Club Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1879. John learns, not for the last time, that his so-called 'betters' can and do use people's regard for them to cover up their fulfilment of their basest instincts. A harrowing encounter for both him and Sherlock, but one which will introduce several new characters into their lives.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as the shocking business at the Tankerville Club.

Shortly before my first, brief encounter with Watson up in Northumberland (if one can call seeing someone disappearing into the distance from a moving train an encounter), my fearsome mother had approached me and reminded me that with my eighteenth birthday not far ahead, I should decide as to which London clubs I wished her to purchase me membership of. I frankly thought such institutions both frightful and archaic but obviously I did not say as much to Mother as I quite liked that thing called breathing. Also, when she got upset she tended to go away and write even more, or worse, dig out some abandoned horror from her notes and demand that I 'work through it with her'! 

How I did not turn to drink while growing up in that house was frankly a miracle of the first order!

A few months after my trip north it was indeed my birthday, and I had drawn up a list of the six clubs which I considered the least worst (or the five; I had to be a member of the 'family club' The Ossory). I was more than a little surprised however when, unlike with my siblings, Mother insisted on purchasing the highest level of membership for me at each institution. Being still a callow youth I had asked her why.

“That doctor friend of yours”, she had said blithely. “You have to have the top level for him.”

If that made any sense, it was beyond me. I had stared at her in confusion.

“Why?” I had asked.

She had sighed in a frankly annoying 'surely it is obvious, dear?' way.

“Because four of those on your list offer free associate membership for a gentleman friend”, she had said. “When he becomes a doctor your 'special' friend can have the club names on his calling-card. That will be important; you know what snobs some people are these days.”

I had supposed that she was right, although I had not liked that 'special'. And there had been the ominous way in which, ever since I had told her about Watson and she had had that terrible 'hearts and flowers' look every time she looked at me. Also that her frequent reminders about me getting married had mysteriously ceased.

_(Looking back, I think that some part of my brilliant subconscious had worked out just why all that was and, showing great wisdom, was preventing me from dwelling on it)._

“Mr. Watson and I barely know each other”, I had pointed out.

She had just smiled at me. It must have been a cold day for I had definitely shivered.

 _”Yet!”_ she had said.

To be fair, Mother had been proven right about the clubs as Watson had confirmed that having those names on his cards had helped with several of his clients, even if he himself hardly ever went to any of them. He did occasionally accompany me to Benfield's on a very small number of Thursdays (as in most of them) because they always served some sort of chocolate dessert which he seemed to like, although he denied that he drooled over it (he did). And it was rather amusing when he became indignant about his having had two desserts on those days. That, he said, did not count as it was chocolate, not dessert!

When I had asked him if finishing off my dessert or even my chocolate as well (which also happened every single time we went) counted, the pout was _glorious!_

MDCCCLXXIX

The strange weather continued into October, and despite the fact that it was dry, a heavy fog hung over London. That in itself was not so unusual; smoke from the factories often made the place unpleasant but I was surprised as this seemed a regular fog yet the weather otherwise remained dry.

_(Although I did not always pay full attention when encouraging my friend to tell me about historical things, one story I did remember was how, during the seventeenth century, the villains at Westminster passed a law banning the use of wood in fires, because the usual supply of coals from Northumberland had been disrupted by the English Civil War, and the change of fuel had led to heavy smoke hanging across the city. However the factory-owners of the time complained that they could not afford the high coal-prices, so a compromise was effected – they could use wood anywhere except near Westminster or any other royal palace! It is oddly re-assuring that such villainy was as common from those rogues back then as it is from the ones in our own era!_

_I had said as much to Watson as well as wondering if they had had their own version of Randall back then, and he had said how unlikely that was as they burned witches back then. He really is not getting any better!)_

In the third week of that month, my friend was called out to see Hugh, Lord Merioneth, who had collapsed during a game of cards at the Tankerville Club (not one of mine, thankfully as events transpired). This establishment was luxurious even by London club standards, situated on the banks of the River Thames in Chelsea. My friend arrived back in not the best of moods; the doorman had looked down at him and had delayed his entrance, then when recovered Lord Merioneth had complained about the time he had taken to get to him. Fortunately the nobleman had needed little more than some re-assurance plus some stomach powders (rather unfortunately some quite expensive ones, my friend admitted to me with a smile). 

I had thought never to have come across the Tankerville Club again, but just two days later when we had a policeman call. Incredibly it was neither LeStrade nor Gregson but a young dark-skinned constable called David Chapel. I say incredibly because it was Miss Hellingly's sponge-cake day yet neither of our usual friends had 'happened to drop by', although someone's suggestion that we might have to arrange a search-party later was, I felt pushing it.

Probably pushing it. I made a mental note to take a walk after lunch to check out, just in case.

Our visitor was clearly anxious for some reason and I wondered why.

“Mr. LeStrade said it was all right to approach you, Mr, Holmes sir”, the constable said politely. He was a reedy, nondescript fellow of average height who had presumably polished his bald head that morning from the glare coming off it. “It is about the Tankerville Club; he said that one of his men saw the doctor entering the place the other day.”

I marvelled at how news got round this mess of a city so fast. 

“I had to treat a patient there”, Watson said, clearly like me wondering what our visitor was leading up to. “Is there a problem?”

“Mr. LeStrade said he was sure there was something odd there, sirs”, the constable said. 

I looked hard at our guest. He was an unremarkable specimen of humanity apart from his ebony skin and shiny pate, but was certainly among the last people that I would ever have associated with somewhere as unpleasantly snooty as that club. And everyone knew that many of these clubs had connections in high places that deterred too much interest from the authorities. That was 'deterred' as in 'could utterly ruin a fellow for showing too much interest'.

“You yourself have some link to this place, constable”, I said shrewdly. “What is it, please?”

The fellow blushed.

“The past year three of my neighbours upped and left without telling anyone, sir”, he said. “Odd thing was they were all young, single men like me. The last one was a mate of a friend of mine; Ben had just turned sixteen and he'd told me he'd been offered a job at the club. His rooms were all sorted and all but it wasn't like him; he wouldn't stop seeing his old friends just because he'd moved to the other side of the city. I asked around the area – you know how rare us black men are in that neck of the woods – but no-one had seen hide nor hair of him.”

I wondered if our visitor realized the sheer strangeness of what he had just come out with. The idea of somewhere like the Tankerville Club employing a _black_ man – it seemed as likely as Watson turning down a chocolate dessert!

“Someone is kidnapping black men from the East End?” I asked, thinking wryly that my friend's cynicism was indeed contagious. “To what end?”

“That's the weird thing”, our visitor said scratching his still glowing pate. “When Mr. LeStrade told me about the doctor going there I asked if I might talk to you, Mr. Holmes sir. He thought that might be better than approaching his boss because..... you know.”

I could sympathize with our cake-loving friend over that. I could not imagine it being easy to explain such a nebulous matter to his superior Inspector MacDonald, especially as it involved those weird objects that the latter regarded as utterly incomprehensible. Namely other people.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Mr. LeStrade was told by the local lads at Chelsea station that it was something peculiar”, the constable said. “Those were the words they used, though it made no sense to him, but for some reason they aren't allowed to go inside the place even if a crime gets reported there. They have to get permission first.”

“Ah”, I said knowingly. 

Watson looked curiously at me.

“What?” he asked.

“The Tankerville Club must be the 'peculiar' that exists in West London”, I said. “It is normally a church term but in this instance it refers to a part of England that is not legally England.”

I could see from the constable's confusion and Watson's all too predictable pout that they had not got it. If I had been a bad person I would have smirked at their confoundment, but I restricted myself to a knowing smile.

“The Tankerville Club was founded in honour of the family of the same name”, I explained. “The current earl, Mr. Charles Bennet to give him his proper name, is descended from a family who before the Conquest used to hold lands in Tancarville, a village in Normandy. At some time in the past the land where the club stands was made a possession of the family as vassals of someone other than the King of England. Their charter must never have been revoked so therefore it is legally not part of England.”

“A part of Chelsea is French?” Watson asked, clearly surprised. 

“Maybe”, I said. “Its questionable legal status means that the police have to tread warily, especially given the difficult situation across the Channel just now.”

That was all too true, and it was something that I knew was giving my pestilential brother Randall a headache especially after his recent _faux pas_ over the Dual Alliance between two of France's neighbours and enemies, Austria-Hungary and Germany. His mishandling of which may or may not have been partly brought about by a certain younger sibling who he kept irritating by persisting in that breathing habit of his. 

“You think the nob himself is involved?” the constable asked, before blushing fiercely. “Er, sorry, sirs.”

I smiled at his embarrassment.

“The earl is a member of the Privy Council and a most honourable gentleman”, I said. “No, whatever is going on at the club that bears his family's name, I am sure that he has no part of it. But he may be important to remedying matters, always assuming that they can be remedied. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, constable. I shall look into it. Oh, and do not forget the most important point of your visit.”

Constable Chapel looked confused.

“What, sir?” he asked.

“Calling in on Miss Hellingly on your way out and ask if she has a spare slice of sponge-cake for your sergeant!”

The poor constable blushed again, but I did not think that that particular deduction called for much effort on my part. Next thing I would be predicting that sun would be rising in the east!

MDCCCLXXIX

Unfortunately it was One Of Those Days. Constable Chapel had barely left when we had a second visitor. A far, far less welcome one.

 _Think of the devil_ , I thought wryly.

“Randall”, I said coolly. “To what do we owe the 'pleasure' of this visit?”

Watson snorted at my very obvious tone of disdain. My pest of a brother did not even take a seat and stared haughtily down his nose at me. But then he had a lot of nose to look down, and for that matter had had a lot of (too much) practice looking down it.

“You are making inquiries into the Tankerville Club”, he said. 

“I shall be”, I said.

“You will cease them.”

“Why?”

The sadist in me really enjoyed moments like these. I knew that my brother had a reputation at work for getting things done but also for annoying far too many people in the process. Some lesser mortal not jumping to do what he wanted within sixty seconds if not six was clearly incomprehensible to him. It was like watching a spoilt child trying to comprehend that strange word 'no'.

“Two of the Cabinet are members of that club”, the pest said, “as well as several Important People. You should not stick your nose in where it is not wanted.”

“I dare say that the criminals that I have helped secure convictions against felt much the same way”, I said coolly. “Try again.”

“It is none of your concern”, his brother said loftily. 

I smiled knowingly.

“Ah but you must be wrong there, my dear brother”, he said. “You would not be here so swiftly if there was not something _highly_ irregular occurring at that establishment. So now.... I am even more curious!”

Randall scowled at me, then at Watson for some reason, before he huffed and headed for the door.

_“Randall!”_

He jumped at my tone, then yelped as he caught his hand on the door-handle. Watson arguably should not have sniggered at that, but I would let him have that one.

“What?” my brother said irritably.

“You forget, I know you”, I said pointedly. “You will not take any action against Constable Chapel and anyone even remotely associated with him, or someone may mention to Mother about your recent trip to Shepherd's Bush!”

That remark elicited a major scowl and the pest exited rapidly, leaving behind the smell of bad _eau de cologne_. I quickly opened the window to help get rid of it. 

“He would not try anything against you?” Watson asked worriedly. 

I felt stupidly warmed by his concern. But then it was November.

“He would like to”, I said. “But he knows that if anything happened to me and it could in any way be traced back to him, then the wrath of God would be as nothing compared to the wrath of Mother!”

He smiled at that.

MDCCCLXXIX

As if you have to ask, our third visitor of the day was Gregson, who 'just happened to be passing' half an hour before lunch. I wondered if any of the criminals that he collared had better stories than that and would my friend not smirk like that just because he had been proven sort of correct.

All right, again!

MDCCCLXXIX

Sometimes one has to make sacrifices for the greater good. But at least one can reduce the risk, and I had had Moira hint to Randall that I was going to tell Mother about the Shepherd's Bush thing anyway, so he had rushed round to Guilford Street first thing this morning – what was extremely fortunate as Mother had just finished 'Quality Street', a saga based in Logan's Debating Societies where 'guests' were given a choice of sweets from a box only to find that inside the wrapping was a set of instructions..... yes.

It was therefore extremely fortunate that Randall had gone round when he did. Extremely fortunate for me, that was, as it meant I could then visit Father safely and use some of his connections to ensure justice in this case. The only downside was that I had not been able to take Watson, not just because of Mother's stories but that I feared she might go as Moira said 'all hearts and flowers' over him. Ugh!

“I thought that I would likely need Father's help in resolving this affair at the Tankerville Club”, I explained to my friend over dinner that evening. “He has certain contacts that are quite useful at times like this. He told me that the club is run by one Mr. Simeon Bennett, a second cousin to Earl Charles. Mr. Bennett is not a pleasant character, by all accounts.”

“A criminal?” he asked. 

I shook my head.

“As LeStrade says, cynically if accurately, nobility like him are too wily to do what is actually criminal. No, he skates around the edges of the law but does not fall in.”

“Sounds like he needs a good push!” he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. 

I stared at him.

“Yes”, I said with a smile. “And maybe one day he will get it.”

One day very soon. After which he will be given a chance to face justice which, I would wager a shilling, he will fail to take up. But I gave most of those who I caught at least a chance.

Except the late Mr. Milton Carew. His crimes were so vile that he had forfeited that entitlement, and Satan was welcome to him!

MDCCCLXXIX

It took rather more days that I had expected even allowing for the fact that we were dealing with someone of limited intelligence and even less human understanding, but three days later we had a visitor, the aforementioned Mr. Simeon Bennett. He was a tall, balding fellow in his fifties and, like Randall, clearly someone used to getting his own way in life by the disdainful manner in which he looked at first me and then around our main room. 

Talking of my pest of a brother, he had predictably sent someone round to try to bully Constable Chapel only for the unlucky operative to 'fall into the Thames' – twice! – and for my brother himself to then have to explain the Shepherd's Bush thing to Mother who was Riled, what my sister Anna would call a Level Three. But then that was the big advantage of living in Guilford Street, being close to not one but two hospitals.

I suppressed a smile. This was going to be interesting.

“They say that you are a private-detective”, Mr. Bennett said dubiously.

“I am”, I said equably. “In what capacity may I be of service, sir?”

There was more than a hint of our visitor's own disdain in my tone. and from his surprised expression Mr. Bennett was clearly unused to getting his own attitude thrown back at him. He scowled but continued.

“I am being followed”, he said. “I went to the police, but apparently I must be attacked and done to death first before they will lift a finger to help. So I came to you.”

“Has your life been threatened?” I asked.

“No”, the fellow admitted, “but there is a man following me wherever I go.”

“Can you describe this 'man'?” I asked.

“It is a different darkie every time”, he said. “They all look alike to me.”

I winced inwardly. The man had done himself no favours at all with that slur, in the eyes of us both.

“So a different person is following you each time and the only connection is that they are a.... the colour of their skin?” I asked. “It does not exactly sound threatening, sir. In a city of a million or more people the odds on someone of that skin colour being in the same areas as yourself at some point in time are mathematically quite high.”

“Maybe if I lived in the East End perhaps”, he said. “But I can tell you the number of darkies around Chelsea is nil. Yet suddenly there are loads of the things!”

I was quietly impressed that he was making me think even more ill of him. Knowing what I had about him prior to this meeting, I had though that unlikely.

“Have you perchance done something that might warrant such a sudden interest?” I asked.

“Of course not!”

There had been the briefest of pauses before he had answered, but it was definitely there. I shook his head at him and tutted disapprovingly.

“I serve clients from all levels of society”, I said, “but the one thing I expect from them is absolute honesty. You would not call on the services of Doctor Watson here, tell him only half your symptoms, then expect an accurate diagnosis. Unless you are completely honest with me, sir, you are wasting my time as well as your own.”

“I can see that!” he said testily. “You have not heard the last of this, Mr. Holmes!”

With a curl of the lip he was gone. Watson stared after him, worried.

“Can he do anything against you?” he asked. 

I shook my head.

“He is all bluster”, he said. “He is only in charge of the Club because his noble cousin, in a rare moment of ill-judgement, wanted to fulfil a familial obligation and give him something to do. His timing today was irritating as I do not quite have everything in place to remedy matters, but I soon will. I shall then call on the offices of Mr. Kuznetsov as only he can obtain what I need.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“A body – and one that is still breathing!”

He looked at me in astonishment.

MDCCCLXXIX

Resolving this case was proving a little more difficult than expected, and I had to sacrifice the best part of a night's sleep to secure what needed to be secure, but one morning towards the end of the month all was in place. I felt arguably not quite myself even after three coffees but Watson very generously forked over all his rashers of bacon onto my plate. He got a look of thanks in return, so it was a fair exchange.

“Are you going into the surgery today?” I asked.

“I am not scheduled to”, he said, “although I may get a call if they are busy. Why?”

“I am expecting someone here at around mid-day”, I said carefully. “I would be very grateful if you could be here to treat him.”

“Do you know what is wrong with him?” he asked. 

I thought for a moment before answering.

“Only that he will be in exceptionally poor physical condition”, I said. “I believe that his mental needs may match or even outweigh his physical ones, but the latter can be treated more immediately. I have secured a place for him to go to recover from the former, but he will need some attention today so that he can make the journey.”

“I shall be here when he comes, then”, he promised. “I shall go round to the surgery to see if they want me to do anything this morning, and tell them that I shall have to leave for a family event at half-past eleven.”

That was good of him. Especially as unlike me, he did not know the horror that awaited him come mid-day. It would likely be Sir Mordred LeStrade's locked room all over again, or perhaps even worse.

MDCCCLXXIX

I had received a telegram from Mr. Kuznetsov informing me that he had obtained the body that I wanted (Lord alone knows that the General Post Office would have thought if they had read that!) and they would be with me some time after one. Sure enough the clock had just struck the hour when there was a knock at the door. I went to open it and outside stood two people, a tall black man and a shorter white one. I handed a coin to the latter who thanked him and left, then ushered the former into the room. It was only when he came into the light of the window that Watson, who was sat facing the door, finally saw him.

He did well to hold it together. He downed the large whisky that I just poured for him in one go.

“This is Mr. Benjamin Hope”, I said quietly. “Do what you can for him, doctor. LeStrade and Constable Chapel will be here in about an hour or so.”

He clearly strove to control himself and ushered the poor man over to the screen, bidding him disrobe. Even clothed it was clear that he had suffered extensive physical torture. While he was getting ready I poured my friend two more drinks the first of which he also downed before starting work. I had quietly contacted Peter Greenwood who, as I had thought, had warned me that I should not give a man in this sort of condition any alcohol as his wrecked body would not have been able to handle it, and should make sure he had only a small glass of water which I had put by him. Not that I was sure he had the strength to lift it.

I shall not disturb the reader by graphically describing the poor fellow's broken body, save to say that he must have been subjected to almost every physical abuse possible. How his frame, which in normal times must have been quite impressive, had not broken under such stress I did not know. I sat in my chair reading my book during the examination as Peter Greenwood had advised a second presence would likely be reassuring; I noted how Mr. Hope (he was I knew barely that as he had only turned eighteen last February) jumped at any sudden noise from the street and was shuddering throughout Watson's examination and treatment. My friend was able to minister to the base physical damage but the fellow would indeed require many weeks away from civilization – a 'civilization' that had done this to him! – to even begin to recover from his ordeal. What chilled me almost as much as his physical condition was the utter lifelessness in his eyes, as if he no longer cared about life.

The time passed much quicker that I thought and Watson was treating some minor cuts on Mr. Hope's face when there was a second knock at the door, and LeStrade appeared with Constable Chapel. The latter blundered into the room and saw his friend's broken body.

I hope never again to see two grown men cry.

MDCCCLXXIX

“How did you manage it?” Watson asked as he, I and LeStrade drove in a cab down to the Chelsea. Constable Chapel had taken Mr. Hope to the hospital that he had arranged for him, out in the Essex countryside near the Epping Forest where the latter would have the time that he needed to recover. And he would not be doing it alone.

“It seemed clear that, for some reason, someone at the Tankerville Club was abducting young, single black men”, I said. “I told Mr. Kuznetsov that I needed Mr. Hope to be removed from the club for a case that I was working on, reasoning that Mr. Simeon Bennett, while he himself eschewed any open criminality, would know full well whom not to annoy. He likely thought that Mr. Hope had committed some egregious error that had upset the crime lord in some way and would soon be taking a terminal dip in the Thames. Instead of which he and all his friends will soon be recovering as much as they can recover from their terrible ordeals.”

“Friends?” LeStrade asked.

I nodded.

“I am afraid that it is not just Constable Chapel's road”, I said heavily. “The Tankerville Club has in the past two years extracted at least sixteen black men from the East End, for the sole purpose of torturing and abusing them.”

“But why?” Watson asked, clearly mystified. “What could have driven them to such a foul act?”

“You are forgetting that for some of these so-called men, the slave trade was abolished in their living memory”, I said. “Sadly, as we see from many Mohammedan countries around the world, people there still see the act of demeaning and abusing those of a different skin complexion as some sort of God-given right. But for the vile scum at the Tankerville Club, that 'right' ends right here!”

MDCCCLXXIX

I do not think that I have seen as many policemen on one street since the relatively modest celebrations some two years back to mark Her Majesty's fortieth year on the throne. The unpleasant doorman at the Club was brushed aside (Watson seemed to enjoy that part, I noted) and the whole matter was over in minutes. I found myself with my friend, LeStrade, a dark-skinned fellow who was suited and in very good condition, and a very angry Mr. Simeon Bennett, in the latter's plush offices.

“This is an invasion of my rights!” Mr. Bennett stormed. “The English police service have no right to invade foreign soil! I shall be communicating with the French government over this!”

I sighed.

“It is a most fortunate thing that you are as ignorant historically as you are ideologically”, I said. “The French government has no jurisdiction here. Given the somewhat irregular circumstances they were informed earlier today of the planned sequence of events, and they have given their consent to our actions. Not that we needed it, but it was politic to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Bennet demanded.

“Well”, I said, “the 'peculiar' status of the land on which this club stands was confirmed in a charter issued by King Henry The Sixth – or at least his guardians – in the year 1434.”

“So?” the fellow sneered.

I owed Watson for this. I had explained the problem of the peculiar to him in detail and he had spotted a possible way around it which, when the dates had been checked, had proven most useful.

“So”, I said patiently as if I were instructing a slow schoolboy, “the wording of the charter states that the land becomes the property not of the King of France but the titular Duke of Normandy. At that moment in history Normandy had, briefly as it turned out, been returned to English rule. As we all know that title is still held by the queen as ruler of the bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey. She has graciously granted her permission for your cousin the earl to sell this land and to use the money for somewhat more humane causes. You and Mr. Christopher here will shortly be enjoying somewhat less salubrious accommodation courtesy of the local gaol.”

“We did nothing wrong”, the black man scowled.

“Deliberately luring away innocent young black men so that you could abuse them in this foul way?” I asked dryly.

“Do you think an English court would believe the word of a black man over a white one, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Christopher sneered.

I sat back and smiled. 

“Does the name 'Mr. Joseph Lake' ring any bells, gentlemen?”

The two villains looked as if they had been pole-axed, which was more than satisfying. I turned to my friends.

“As Mr. Christopher so rightly says, proof is a difficult thing”, I said. “So for the past couple of weeks the Tankerville Club has enjoyed the free services of a budding young photographer who has been providing its members with pictorial evidence of their 'achievements'. As anyone with any grasp of that technology knows, _for every photograph there is a negative!”_

Mr. Christopher suddenly moved to strike me, but LeStrade was faster than I would have thought possible with his bulk and floored the fellow with a single punch to the jaw.

“That felt good!” he said as Mr. Bennett cowered away from him, clearly fearful that he might be next. “Even if I may have broken something.”

“Doctor?” I smiled.

“I will not stand trial in a court!” Mr. Bennet protested. “I have friends, Mr. Holmes. Friends in high places!”

I turned on him. He backed away from me in alarm.

“For what you and your partner in crime did, there will be justice indeed”, I said heavily. _“Just what sort, is up to you!”_

MDCCCLXXIX

Mr. Bennett was right; he and Mr. Christopher did not stand trial in a court. Not because of their connections however highly they were placed, but because they made one more final, fatal mistake. I warned them that anything other than a guilty plea with no mitigation would lead to the most unpleasant repercussions but proving that they were as stupid as a certain lounge-lizard of a brother that I could mention they still went to their lawyers in an attempt to avoid justice. 

On the way back from that meeting they were both picked up and escorted to the streets around Constable Chapel's house, from where they had taken all those young men. The young men's relatives were all waiting for them, a group of over thirty very angry men and women. 

Two bodies were hauled out of the Thames the following day. They were barely recognizable.

MDCCCLXXIX

On a happier note I am pleased to say that the men rescued from the Tankerville Club, which the earl did indeed close down, all made full recoveries. I must also say, before concluding this story, that Earl Charles was horrified by what had been done in his name, and an investigation showed that his private secretary had been in his cousin's pay and was warning him every time the earl came to the club; the fellow was instantly dismissed. The earl insisted on paying the full costs of all eighteen victims' stay in the Essex sanatorium, a great expense indeed as some of them were there for nearly a whole year. One in particular.... but I am getting ahead of myself. 

The government was rocked by the resignations of two of its members but as these were generally disliked it was able to ride out the storm, while several other people in high society decided that a new life in foreign climes was very desirable – as of immediately! Watson told me this which was most impressive considering how little he read the society-pages. 

I smiled. I did _not_ smirk!

MDCCCLXXIX


	14. The Musgrave Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 1879. John travels with Sherlock to Scotland to help out a family friend of the great detective. An ancient curse turns out to have more staying power than expected, the first seer to enter the doctor's life duly sees it coming... and over seventy people die a cold and terrible death.

It was nearly winter, and this autumn had been one of the driest ever yet a heavy fog still hung over the city. It was beginning to cause my friend more work as some of his patients had breathing difficulties and reacted badly to this sort of thing, although regrettably far too many of them were hypochondriacs who could look at the steam coming out of a kettle and instantly come down with something as bad as the Black Death. If not worse. 

There was also a frankly unpleasant incident involving my unlovely brother Randall, without which I could have done very well. One of Watson's snootier patients (see under competitions for which there is plenty of competition) suddenly snapped at him that they had seen him going into one of Logan's Debating Societies, and demanded to know why. He snapped back that as a doctor his motto was to treat those who needed it regardless; fortunately the fellow was most unpleasant so my friend did not consider him much of a loss. I made sure that the surgery refused to send any more doctors to the fellow until he had a) paid all his outstanding bills and b) apologized, which led to him sloping off to another surgery.

No, it was what transpired as a result that was annoying. Logan got to hear of it, and he and Ajax soon found out that the vile Randall had had one of his operatives tracking Watson in the hope of finding out something about him. They pursued the villain to Guilford Street where, in a display of stupidity impressive even by his standards he ran to Mother and told her what he had done.

It all turned out for the best however, especially as I had never liked that ugly standing-lamp. And Randall might be buying a season-ticket for the hospital if this kept up. Especially as he 'fell down the stairs' during that visit by Logan and Ajax. Three times!

As Watson would so rightly say, oh dear how sad never mind.

MDCCCLXXIX

One of the common turns of phrase which I know annoyed my friend Watson was people who referred to Scotland as 'beyond Hadrian's Wall'. Even given today's oftentimes rudimentary educational standards, one would really hope that most people would have been aware that his home county of Northumberland (along with a small part of neighbouring Cumberland) lay beyond that edifice, and for the Northumberlanders to be grouped in with a nation which spent most of its existence raiding them is both insensible and hurtful.

I have mentioned before as to how gentlemen with heritage of North and South Britain tend, I have noted, to gravitate to one side of the Border or the other. LeStrade's and Gregson's taciturn superior Inspector MacDonald may have looked the archetypal Celtic warrior but he was entirely English, while our friend Hopkins, although he seemed on the surface just as English, held a deep love for his native Roxburghshire (which was to prove rather useful as events would transpire). Watson had loved his late mother but had little time for her nation, being entirely English despite his middle name. My friend enjoyed travelling around England but I had noted that his enjoyment lessened somewhat when we entered what they call the Celtic Fringe – although after a certain trip to Cornwall some time back, I was coming to share that opinion.

This case would take us to North Britain in order to assist a friend of my father, who had been irksomely uninformative in his communication with my parent. Rather oddly he had said that there was some sort of preternatural element involved, and it had been wrong of Watson to suggest sending Randall instead, in the hope that someone might turn him into a toad. Or perhaps something even slimier and repulsive?

Watson was becoming a bad influence on me! Besides, Randall was going nowhere any time soon – Mother had already taken advantage of his latest indisposition by making him edit some of her crim..... her inimitable works. And Watson really needs to get something for that cough of his!

Finally, this case was to prove unusual in one manner in particular. Our case at Towton apart – I did not think that any future case could ever match twenty-eight thousand deaths, or at least I fervently hoped not! – this one was to have a still high body count. For nearly four score people would not make it into the eighties, most of them innocent ladies and gentlemen who had just happened to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Most of them.

MDCCCLXXIX

“Watson”, I said across the breakfast table one cold morning not long before Christmas, “you would describe yourself as a man of equable temperament, would you not?”

“Of course”, he said firmly. “I am a doctor. I have to be.”

I could see that far too late he had spotted what he had just walked into. He swallowed nervously.

“What?” he asked suspiciously. 

I smiled my most beatific smile at him, and he gave me his put-upon expression, knowing that he was going to do what I asked whether he willed it or no. 

“I was wondering”, I said, “how you would feel about spending Christmas north of the Border?”

“In Scotland?” he asked. “Why?”

I could see his wariness. The modern reader should understand that this was eighteen hundred and seventy-nine when trains between London and Caledonia were comparatively slow, the best trains taking about nine hours to reach Edinburgh. Points further afield added many more hours to the journey, and as I mentioned a few years back the railways were only beginning to accommodate the idea of the _hoi polloi_ using their services to any great extent. Plus this was December.

“I have a case that involves travelling to the ancient Kingdom of Fife¹”, I explained. “The village of Musgrave in the north-east part of the county, to be exact. Since your brother is studying at Edinburgh I could ask that the two of you both be invited in order that you could spend some time with him.”

I could see that he was touched by that. We had of course met his brother Stephen some time back when he had come to London for the Fountain-Pen Case but I knew that my friend cared deeply for his sibling. To be fair to him, Mr. Watson had communicated with his brother rather more frequently since then, and not because I had asked him to. I had certainly not mentioned the prospect of sending my mother and her stories to Edinburgh if he had not, as that would have been quite wrong of me. Indeed I had not mentioned that quite strongly. Twice!

“That would be very good”, he smiled. “I really do miss Stevie, despite all the hair. Can you tell me anything about the case?”

“I am not even sure that there is a case”, I admitted. “It may be nothing at all. But Ceawlin Musgrave is an old family friend, or at least his father Edwin was.”

“Saxon names that far north”, he observed.

“As you yourself told me, Edinburgh was once an English town”, I said, stifling a yawn. “If you can get the time off we could leave on the evening of the twenty-third. I thought that we could travel up by the night sleeper and alight at Stirling so that your brother can meet us there rather than subject him to a choppy crossing of the Firth of Forth. I know that it is annoying having to go all the way inland to Stirling and then out again, but fortunately the North British Railway line from there to Dundee passes through Musgrave Halt and all trains have to stop there on request.”

He looked at me anxiously. For a doctor he was sometimes a complete mother-hen when it came to worrying about my health. I could hardly cough without eliciting an anxious look from him.

“Six hours sleep”, I muttered.

“It is creepy when you do that!” he grumbled.

I grinned.

MDCCCLXXIX

There were at that time two routes between London and Scotland, known colloquially as the West Coast (then the London & North Western and Caledonian Railway Companies, now the London, Midland & Scottish), and the East Coast (then the Great Northern, North Eastern and North British Railway Companies, now the London & North Eastern). A recently-opened third route, the Midland and North British line via Leeds and Carlisle, was both longer and more difficult so was never a serious competitor although as has been said that company's recent carriage improvements had made it more popular, forcing other companies to reluctantly follow suit. 

The eastern route was the fastest one as far as Edinburgh but passengers wishing to travel to points further north had until recently had to endure two unpleasant sea-crossings of the Firths of Forth and Tay. This had led to the North British Railway looking to span these great divides – approximately 1½ and 2 miles respectively – and a bridge designed by the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch had last year been opened across the Tay. He had created something that from the pictures I had seen of it had definitely put function before aesthetics, but I suppose that it had served its purpose and he was now working on a design for a Forth Bridge further south.

As I mentioned, with all this fog and the approach of winter, Watson was very busy at the surgery although fortunately he had amassed enough time off for our trip. Nevertheless I decided to take the Night Sleeper so he could have an extra day's work; he was as ever worried about his finances and needed all the money that he could get. It was fortunate that so many of his late payers had suddenly decided that the approach of the festive season was an excellent time to settle their accounts, if they knew what was good for them. Especially those with the initials W.R. and a curious interest in leather goods!

We duly arrived at Euston Station and found that we had adjoining compartments connected by a door. After he had settled in Watson joined me, taking the chair while I sat cross-legged on his bed and took out my pipe. I found it amusing that people attributed my absent-mindedness to the fact that the thing was never lit; it might have been difficult as I kept a couple of spare barley-sugars in the thing, but never tobacco.

_(Curiously I had mentioned this to Captain Macareus Whitesmith when he had brought me the blesséd items and he had confirmed that Lord Tobias Hawke had not smoked either; he had just felt that a man should have a pipe)._

“Tell me about the case”, my friend said.

“Despite their name the Musgraves are by descent as Scottish as they come”, I began. “An ancestor was fortunate enough to get in with King James the Sixth before he became King James the First of England, so when the latter came south they 'rode their coat-tails' so to speak. The current lord is Ceawlin; as I explained his father Edwin was a friend of my own father. Ceawlin and I were at school together although he was in the year ahead of mine so we did not see each other much.”

“His father died young, then?” he asked.

“A hunting accident”, I said. “He had three sons; Ceawlin, Constantine and Cynric. There was some concern because Constantine was a wayward young thing whom was suspected of being mentally unstable, but he solved that problem rather neatly by drinking himself to death before he was sixteen. Two years ago Ceawlin married and now has a son, Kenneth. That is partly what this is all about.”

“The boy is not in any danger?” he asked.

“I do not know”, I frowned. “It is all quite bizarre. The family has an ancient ritual that on the first birthday of a new heir the father must go down to the cross in the village church-yard in the small hours and see the sun rise while giving thanks. Even in this day and age, childhood is a dangerous time.”

“Your friend does not want to do this?” he asked.

“He does not really believe in superstition”, I said. “The Musgraves have always been of determined if not pig-headed stock and it is appropriate that they live in 'The Hard Place'.”

“The what?” he asked.

“Their ancestral home”, I explained. “Originally it was on the other side of the hill from the village and close to the coast where a road or hard ran along the foreshore, hence the name. An ancestor took the opportunity of that house being badly damaged in a storm to rebuild in a more sheltered and dare I say a more sensible spot, but they kept the name.”

“I see.”

“Ceawlin's wife is convinced that it is all mumbo-jumbo and that he would be better ignoring the whole thing. But many think that he would be wiser to stick with tradition. It is a very traditional area, the Kingdom of Fife. I wonder how friendly they might be to outsiders like us.”

“So he is torn”, he said. 

“Yes. I suppose that we had better turn in so we are fresh when we arrive in Stirling and meet your brother.”

He smiled and left me.

MDCCCLXXIX

The following day we alighted at Stirling and met Watson's brother outside the platform entrance, our onward train being in another hour's time. He again thanked me for my assistance over the Fountain-Pen Case and to my friend's obvious _chagrin_ we were soon chatting away. The lawyer even asked if my friend had any (more) annoying habits and I promised to run through a list of them once I had the time. 

The pout was as glorious as ever!

MDCCCLXXIX

'The Hard Place' was, I quickly decided, just like the Scottish weather – damp and depressing. Also most of the people in it were, even by the standards of my own family, _strange!_

Ceawlin Musgrave was the only one I could really take to, although Fate had not been kind to him in granting him the family nose which stuck out prodigiously (Watson quite deliberately blew his own nose when we were introduced, the bastard!). The lord of the manor introduced us to his wife and infant son, the latter's nose fortunately not yet showing any tendencies towards greatness. 

Lady Alison Musgrave was quiet and I thought more than a little secretive. She was short, dark and almost ethereal, as if she were not really there. Also in the house was her unmarried half-sister Miss Monica MacLeish who definitely simpered at me despite Watson's pointed cough. It always puzzled me as to why ladies were drawn to my occasionally less than pristine appearance and I sometimes got the sense that it irritated my friend for some reason. 

There was the usual complement of staff but the only one to draw my attention was the steward, a Mr. John Sweeney. Despite the name (I knew that Lady Alison had been a Sweeney) he was only a third cousin once removed to the lady of the manor. He was wiry, dark-haired, round-faced and, I thought, the archetypal Celt who looked at his Sassenach visitors with barely-concealed disgust. I suspected that he was probably still resentful over the 1707 Act of Union, which some Caledonians were. But then there was no pleasing some people.

MDCCCLXXIX

I had expected Christmas morning to be taken up with opening young Kenneth's presents, so was surprised that this was not the case. Our host saw my confusion. 

“It is his first birthday tomorrow”, he explained, “so we decided that this year, as he it too young to understand it we would have one big day of presents.”

“Is that the night you are expected to go to the Cross?” I asked. 

He reddened.

“Yes”, he said. “Alison thinks that I should not go, and I am inclined to agree with her. She says that in this day and age we should be past such superstition.”

“I would venture that many here disagree with that”, I said. 

Our host looked surprised but nodded. 

“They do”, he said. “Sweeney thinks that I am a fool who does not want to face an hour or two in the cold and wet to save his own son. Though he is too polite to say it out loud.”

 _Barely_ , I thought. The steward had mastered the ability of expressing exactly what he thought through his facial expressions without ever saying anything. 

“Does your sister-in-law have an opinion?” I asked.

I felt Watson tense at that. He had returned from talking to his brother to find Miss MacLeish talking to (and simpering at) me, and had been visibly uneasy. He really was taking the mother-hen thing to extremes of late.

“She has said nothing on the matter”, our host said.

We were interrupted by Watson's brother descending the stairs (yes, and patting his hair!). I had to allow my friend that smirk, at least.

MDCCCLXXIX

The Lord's day passed quietly and pleasantly enough, although I could sense a growing unease amongst some in the house as to our host's decision, stated firmly over luncheon, that he would not be going to the Cross that night. Watson took his brother out for a walk and returned once again to find Miss MacLeish talking to (and still simpering at) me. He did not look best pleased, although she soon found a reason to leave us, smiling rather knowingly for some reason. 

Watson informed me that his brother was seeing a fellow student at his university down in Edinburgh; I knew from his phrasing that he wished me to undertake a few inquiries into that lady just in case, and jotted down a name to pass on to Moira when we were back in London. I would have used Mark, but the bastard had told me that he was having Tiny round for 'all Twelve Days of Christmas, God help me!' As I said to Watson, how on earth had I turned out so well-balanced and perfectly normal, let alone so brilliantly clever.

I felt that he was nodding perhaps a shade too fervently there, but perhaps he had a sore neck.

The calm was broken at dinner that evening. Miss MacLeish had not come down from her room and after waiting a while we sat down without her. We, were just about to start when there was a loud scream from upstairs. We all raced out of the room, I and Mr. Sweeney in the lead, and we must have reached her room less than a minute after the scream. Nothing seemed to be amiss however and our host took the three of us aside and promised to 'explain later'. We left him and went back to our meal.

After some time Ceawlin and Mr. Sweeney joined us. 

“Is Miss MacLeish all right?” Watson asked politely.

“Girl's fey!” Mr. Sweeney grumbled. 

Watson looked understandably confused at that.

“He means that she has the Sight”, I explained (I had heard the same phrasing used about my late maternal grandmother). 

Mr. Sweeney looked across at his employer and scowled.

“Aye!” he said sourly. _“She_ has, if no-one else round here!”

He got up and stomped out, scowling deeply. Our host sighed.

“My sister-in-law has psychic premonitions”, Ceawlin Musgrave explained to Watson. “Tonight she told us and I quote, 'Death would strike the Kingdom before three days were out'.”

“Folly!” Watson scoffed. 

Our host looked across at him.

“Do your remember reading about the murder of a lady called Julia Martha Thomas earlier this year?” he asked.

I did, and I could see that my friend did too (it must have appeared somewhere near the society-pages, presumably). The maid of the lady in question, one Kate Webster, had for reasons never fully established murdered her mistress then disposed of the body, even masquerading as her for a time before disappearing back to Ireland. She had however been found out and later hung.

“My sister-in-law went to the police on the day before the murder and told them that a crime would take place on that very street”, our host said. “The local police dismissed her concerns, as I suppose most people would have done in the circumstances. But she was right.”

“So will you go to the Cross after all?” Watson asked tentatively.

He seemed to think for a moment before straightening up.

“No”, he said firmly. “Alison is right. In this day and age we need to be getting beyond such nonsense!”

I thought for a moment. I had a bad feeling that, in this instance, Miss MacLeish might well be right to fear the worst. I decided that I would get our host alone for a time after dinner and put a few things to him. It was a pity that I could not do it now but Watson, for all his fine qualities, was a terrible liar and the dangers here were such that I could not risk his involvement.

MDCCCLXXIX

“What was all that about earlier?” Watson asked as we sat in the library later than evening. He was smiling as Miss MacLeish had finally registered my obvious lack of interest in her attentions and had turned on his brother. I had not known the human face could achieve that shade of red, although it was wrong of Watson to suggest slipping her his brother's address in Edinburgh. I would never have done anything like that to my...... well, it was wrong anyway.

“I was recommending a course of action to our genial host”, I said, wishing that my conscience could cut me some slack for once. “I think that he will follow it; at least I hope that he will. For his own sake.”

“You think that there is something in this ritual thing?” he asked. 

“I am certain of it.”

The definitely surprised him.

“You cannot believe in some old curse!” he said.

“Miss MacLeish expects Death to visit this area very soon”, I said flatly. “I fear that she may well be right.”

“But what makes you think that?” he asked.

“A number of factors”, I said, maybe a tad evasively. “Primarily young Kenneth Musgrave.”

He was clearly set to demand an explanation but at that moment his brother provided a helpful distraction by bursting into the library and loping over to sit (hide) beside us. I could hear Miss MacLeish calling for him from the corridor outside and we both chuckled at him.

MDCCCLXXIX

The twenty-seventh started in an atmosphere of tense quiet. Everyone knew that our host had broken the ritual by not attending at the Cross the previous night and I could sense a growing sense of tension, particularly from some of the servants. The scowl on Mr. Sweeney's face was if possible even deeper.

Watson took his brother out for another walk, while I had another conversation with out host. I then took a walk myself over to the coast; the Kingdom of Fife was a rough but rather attractive area, and I wondered what effect the bridge over the Forth to Edinburgh would have. One never knew with technology and new developments; I walked around Tayport which had until recently been the port of embarkation for ferries to Dundee before the strikingly ugly bridge had been built, but was now one again a quiet little village. Railways might bring prosperity to the Nation as a whole, but that effect was rarely if ever an even one.

I arrived back to find a trap waiting outside and a footman loading a suitcase into it. I could see Mrs. Musgrave inside it and she talked briefly to her husband before it drew away.

“Alison had a letter from an old friend down in Stirling who has had to go into hospital”, Ceawlin explained. “She wants to visit her today before coming back here for the New Year.”

He looked meaningfully at me. I understood, and we went in to escape the rain that was beginning to fall.

MDCCCLXXIX

The following day the rain intensified and a storm seemed to be blowing in from the North Sea. At least both house and village lay behind a small hill just two miles south of the new bridge so we were protected from some of the weather's fury if not all. Watson, his brother and I spent the day reading, the only event being a telegram from Mrs. Musgrave to note her safe arrival at her friend's house.

I noted with amusement how Watson's brother inserted himself between myself and my friend at dinner, presumably in an attempt to evade the attentions of Miss MacLeish. Ceawlin stifled a yawn at the head of the table.

“I feel tired after all those damn accounts”, he said. “I think that I shall take a nap for an hour or two. Sweeney, could you please ask Mrs. Holland to send me up a glass of warm milk?”

“Of course, sir”, the steward nodded. 

They both left the table in different directions.

“I shall turn in early”, Miss MacLeish said. “It looks like being a bad one tonight.”

She was right, more than even I knew.

MDCCCLXXIX

At about a quarter to seven I went to Watson's room. He looked surprised at my advent, and was clearly concerned at my expression.

“Come Watson!” I said. “The game is afoot!”

He scrambled to follow me and caught me up on the stairs. I led the way to the library where we found a worried-looking host being handed a stiff drink by the butler. Not his first, I judged from his shaking hand. Our host downed the whole glass and looked hard at me.

“You were right!” he ground out. “By God, I so hoped that you were not!”

I bowed my head.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I wish that it could have been otherwise.”

“What is going on?” Watson asked in confusion. 

I turned to him.

“About half an hour ago, Mr. Sweeney attempted to murder Mr. Musgrave.”

“But why?” my friend asked, clearly shocked. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Tell him!” our host ground out. “Why not? It will be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns soon enough!”

“Mr. Sweeney had been conducting an affair with his cousin Mrs. Musgrave”, I explained. “Tonight he went to his master's room and attempted to shoot him dead.”

“But we would have heard something!” Watson objected.

The storm outside chose that moment to do an obliging roll of thunder. I smiled thinly.

“He merely waited until that”, I said. 

“But why did you not hear him come in?” my friend said turning to our host. “You cannot have been fast asleep, surely?”

“Mr. Sweeney drugged the milk that he took up for him”, I explained. “I presume that you poured it away?”

Mr. Musgrave nodded.

“I put aside some in a bottle like you asked, then I got rid of the rest”, he said, reaching for another drink. “Your friend advised me to sleep in another room and he made a mound under the bedclothes to look like me. When the bastard realized that he had been found out, he fled the house. He had a horse ready and rode off to the station; he is probably in Dundee by now.”

“But why did you not stop him?” Watson asked.

“Because it is better that he is away from here”, I said. “This way the story will, as our host says, be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns but the newspapers will quickly move onto something else. A trial would only drag things out. Did he go for the bonds, sir?”

Our host nodded.

“I took them out of the box and replaced them with some blank paper to match the weight”, he said. “As you had said, he did not have the time to check them.”

“Why Dundee?” Watson asked. “Surely if he is fleeing the country he would go to London?”

“You underestimate the power of our Nation”, I said. “In this day and age the only safe place that he could run to would be a country that we are hostile towards and which would not willingly hand him over. I would hazard a guess that there is a ship leaving Dundee docks very soon, bound for Archangel or St. Petersburg. Mrs. Musgrave's visit to her friend was of course a blind; she will be meeting her accomplice on the train likely at Musgrave Halt.”

“How could you have known?” Watson asked. 

I looked at our host.

“You told me, sir.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Not directly”, I said, “but ever since my arrival in your house my lord I have observed how you do not react to young Kenneth the way most fathers would to their first-born son, especially one born to such an estate as this. You have suspected your wife of infidelity for some time, had you not?”

He nodded. 

“I did”, he said sadly, “although I never thought it to have been with her own cousin. And now she is gone.”

“Indeed”, I said.

MDCCCLXXIX

Mrs. Musgrave was indeed gone, more than any of us then realized. Close observers of the date at this point in this story will probably be able to guess just how. I had been right in that Mr. Sweeney had arranged to meet his cousin and lover on her train into Musgrave Halt after his attempt on her husband's life, so that if it went wrong at least they could escape together with what he thought were his master's bonds. But Fate had other ideas.

December the twenty-eighth, eighteen hundred and seventy-nine was the night that the railway bridge across the River Tay collapsed, sending a train of over seventy passengers to a cold death in the icy waters far below....

MDCCCLXXIX

We took a train back via Stirling to Edinburgh and I found some business in the Scottish capital that enabled Watson to have a full day with his brother before we took the Night Sleeper back to London. The initial reports of the Tay Bridge disaster were horrific as it was suggested that some three hundred people had perished, but fortunately this was soon amended when it was realized that the tickets counted had inadvertently included those for the Saturday as well as that fateful Sabbath. Still the deaths of at least seventy people (because of season and weekly tickets the exact number was never fully established) was the worst disaster on the railways ever, not to be exceeded before the tragic Quintinshill double-collision in 1915.

The fallout from this case was rather more than even I might have expected. I do not think that poor Ceawlin Musgrave ever really recovered from his wife's perfidy and the death of young Kenneth in a scarlet fever outbreak two years later was the final straw. He resigned his title to his brother Cynric and left to start a new life in South Africa.

Two weeks before his departure Mr. Cynric Musgrave had become engaged. To one Miss Monica MacLeish....

The subsequent inquiry into the Tay Bridge Disaster almost wholly blamed the designer, the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch. He was ruined by the calamity and died soon after, a broken man. It was true that his belated re-design of the structure when he realized that he had been misled about the solidity of the river-bed was most ill-advised, and also that more than one of his other bridges had to be replaced when testing proved them equally likely to fail sooner rather than later. However Watson said, and I agreed, that the North British Railway Company who had so frequently exceeded the twenty-five miles per hour speed limit on the bridge such that Dundonians would no longer use northbound trains because they ran so fast down the steep northern side of the bridge, was at least equally culpable.

MDCCCLXXIX

_Notes:_   
_1) Despite the name Fife has never really been an independent kingdom. The royal appellation comes from the fact that it lies between the Firths of Tay (north of which is the traditional Scots capital where kings were enthroned at Scone) and Forth (south of which is the modern capital Edinburgh). Fife's fertile lands, rich hunting grounds and relative isolation made it a royal base, and Falkland Palace was built there in the thirteenth century._

MDCCCLXXIX


End file.
